c/he 


c/hief  of 
irtue 


€den  ^liiUpoUs 


THE   THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 


THE  THIEF  OF 
VIRTUE 


BY  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

Author  of    "The  Haven,"   "Children  of  the  Mist, 
"The  Three  Brothers,"  etc. 


lGi39 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN    LANE   COMPANY 

MCMX 


SANTA    BARBARA.    CALIF. 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS   PRINTING  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK 


XLo 
MY  WIFE 


THE  THIEF  OF  VIRTUE 


BOOK    I 

CHAPTER    I 

Cloud-shadows  swept  a  desert,  and  beneath  their  stains 
the  bosom  of  the  waste  appeared  to  rise  and  fall,  as 
though,  not  earth,  but  some  enormous,  animate  creature 
of  earth,  panted  here,  and  stretched  its  rugged  immensity 
upon  the  midst  of  that  wider  world  outspread  around  it. 
Dartmoor,  beheld  from  a  height  above  her  central  plains, 
sprang  to  a  crown  of  tors,  and  rounded  mightily  on  many 
a  hog-backed  hill.  Within  this  amphitheatre  twinkled 
the  eastern  arm  of  Dart,  straggled  a  wood,  and  clustered 
a  few  cottages  beside  the  river;  while  at  distances  remote 
from  the  central  dwellings,  sunk  humbly  beside  this 
streamlet  or  beneath  that  steep,  there  shone  out  roof- 
trees  of  little  farms. 

The  Moor  encircled  them  in  billowy  plains  of  pallid 
yellow  and  dim  green.  Its  faces  rolled  upon  each  other ; 
they  fell  here  to  water-side;  they  ascended  and  broke 
where  the  granite  burst  through  them  in  peaks  and  ra- 
vines; they  brightened  where  the  ling  bloom  spattered 
their  leagues  with  light.  A  lesser  fret  of  inherent  colour 
was  manifest  under  that  mightier  robe  where  sunshine 
blazed  and  shadows  sped.  One  garment  covered  all  things 
in  permanent  mosaic  of  herbage  and  stone,  stark  peat 
and  sparkling  water — the  intrinsic  raiment  of  the  Moor, 


2  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

that  altered  only  to  the  call  of  the  seasons,  vanished  only 
at  the  fall  of  the  snow.  But  the  other,  cast  down  by  med- 
ley of  light  and  cloud,  spread,  moved,  and  flowed  along 
in  a  pattern  more  vast  and  grand. 

At  midday  in  summer,  shadows,  very  purple  under  the 
ambient  splendour  of  the  hour,  roamed  over  Dartmoor, 
sometimes  in  thronging  companies  and  sometimes  alone. 
They  leapt  the  rivers,  raced  tiie  level  heaths,  and  climbed 
the  hills.  Upon  the  sky  there  worked  two  separate  winds, 
and  each  drove  its  own  flock.  At  lower  level  advanced 
the  cumuli  and  threw  their  shades  upon  the  earth;  and 
above  them  great  lines  of  transparent  but  visible  vapour, 
filmy  against  the  blue,  sailed  in  upper  zones,  and  by  their 
direction  marked  another  stream  of  air.  The  cirri,  like 
fingers  that  rose  out  of  a  palm  beneath  the  horizon,  spread 
fanwise  from  a  point  unseen.  Then  to  the  zenith,  in 
majestic  and  unfolding  perspective  they  ascended.  Be- 
neath the  sun  these  cloud-lances  of  the  height,  flying 
arrowy,  burnt  like  flame,  and  by  contrast  dimmed  the 
round,  golden  heads  of  the  greater  clouds  beneath  them. 
Most  delicate  and  dazzling  bright  were  they — ^mere  flakes 
of  fire  upon  the  solar  face  that  no  way  dimmed  the  down- 
beat of  his  glory-,  but  that  they,  too,  flung  shadows  and 
spread  invisible  gauze  of  shade  among  the  darker  um- 
brage might  not  be  doubted,  though  the  unseen  passing  of 
them  cooled  no  cheek.  Upon  their  aerial  way  they  went, 
and  closed  their  ranks  again  and  narrowed  as  they  sank 
to  the  farther  horizon. 

In  the  sunlit,  lower  strata  the  full  sky  pageant  cul- 
minated. Here  cloud-billows  like  bergs  first  floated  along 
the  edge  of  earth  in  level  lines,  wind-steered.  Then  they 
approached;  their  magnitude  increased  and  they  bulked 
enormous.  Now,  like  volcanic  isles,  they  loomed — like 
isles  all  built  of  mountains — and  though  light  glowed 
upon  their  peaks  and  precipices,  darkness  and  storm 
dwelt  in  the  caverns  beneath  them.  Concavities  of 
gloom  receded  depth  upon  depth  within  their  top- 
pling and  burning  cornices;  and  many  a  convexity 
of  light  spread  molten  upon  the  inner  darkness  and  set 
its  neighbour  cloud  on  fire.     Out  of  the  surges  spired 


THE   THIEF   OP   VIRTUE  3 

new  pinnacles  and  spread  new  tides  of  vapour,  now 
shadowed  by  other  masses  that  whirled  between  them  and 
the  sun,  now  open  to  the  ray,  leaping  and  splashing  in 
feathers  and  foam  of  fire  against  the  blue.  A  thousand 
transient  passages  of  waxing  and  waning  splendour  mod- 
ified these  fierce  exchanges  of  light  and  shadow.  Ever  and 
anon  they  clashed  indeed  in  fleeting  battles,  but  more 
often  each  melted  into  the  other ;  the  radiance  was  over- 
laid with  tender  colours  that  pervaded  and  qualified ;  the 
gloom  was  shot  and  arched  with  bannerets  and  streamers 
of  pure  light.  The  breasts  of  the  rolling  legions  blazed 
and  faded,  blazed  and  faded  again;  and  their  heaviest 
murk  was  apparent  only,  not  real.  For  the  least  cloud- 
shadows  racing  over  earth  were  darker  far  than  the  deep- 
est, stormiest  stains  upon  the  cloud-cliffs  ascending  above 
them.  There  the  darkness  was  light — the  whole  sky  a 
relation  of  great  and  lesser  light ;  and  clouds  that  lowered 
sombre  against  some  glory  of  fire-steeped  vapour  round 
about,  or  upon  the  azure  of  the  firmament,  sailed  lustrous 
and  luminous  contrasted  with  the  bosom  of  the  earth- 
mother  that  bore  them. 

The  intricate  movements  of  these  tangled  and  wind- 
tormented  multitudes  passed  all  telling.  The  staple  of 
them  furnished  a  loom  for  light  direct  and  reflected ;  their 
substance  also  displayed  violent  and  rapid  motion.  Only 
the  remoteness  of  the  clouds  made  it  possible  even  to 
calculate  the  terrific  turmoil  of  the  flying  masses,  or  guess 
at  the  extent  of  their  furlings  and  unfurlings,  their  tot- 
terings  and  fallings,  their  uprisings  and  accumulations 
and  their  downfalls,  dislimnings  and  destructions 
wrought  by  the  hurricane  aloft.  They  huddled  together, 
ascended,  collapsed;  and  before  one  might  chronicle  the 
overthrow  of  some  cloud-palace  a  mile  high,  the  levelled 
ruins  spread  for  fresh  elevations  to  lift  upon.  Above 
vaporous  marshes  arose  castles,  with  silver  flags  flying 
from  their  towers  and  battlements ;  and  ere  the  last  pin- 
nacle soared  to  its  place,  all  burnt  away  again  and  shot 
in  tattered  wisps  aloft  or  sank  in  radiant  wreckage 
below.  The  pageant  unrolled,  hung  three  miles  above  the 
earth,  and  swept  onward  in  ruin  and  renascence — a 


4  THE   THIEF   OF  VIRTUE 

symbol  of  the  suspected  principle  that  all  things  shall  for 
ever  be  coming  but  never  be  come. 

The  wonder  of  the  clouds  diminished,  the  cumuli 
humped  and  dwarfed ;  there  grew  increase  of  density  and 
dimness  along  their  faces  and  a  lessened  splendour  upon 
their  retreating  heads.  They  shrank  and  dwindled.  They 
departed,  and  distance  at  length  hid  all  the  wonder  of 
their  hearts  until,  mildly,  gently,  as  ships  on  a  summer 
sea,  they  sailed  down  to  the  distant  earth-line.  The 
snowy  alps  and  tortured  cloud-crests  vanished ;  all  detail 
died  out  of  them ;  the  glory  and  passion  of  them  and  their 
storms  and  strivings  were  merged  into  long,  still  lakes  of 
pearl,  that  outlined  uttermost  earth  and  stretched  above 
one  faint  thread,  where  sea  met  sky  afar  off  in  the  south. 

So  they  passed,  to  the  shepherding  of  herald  Hermes ; 
and  in  their  procession  and  recession  they  offered  an 
image  of  that  mightier  duty  trusted  to  the  plume-footed 
son  of  Maia.  For  his  the  task,  not  only  to  lead  the  clouds 
from  on  high  to  their  dissolving  places  in  the  deep ;  but 
also  to  guard  those  other  vapours — the  shades  and  shad- 
ows of  mankind — ^upon  their  last  pilgrimage  from  light 
into  darkness,  from  the  upper  world  to  that  nether 
kingdom  where  no  sun  shines. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  MAN  who  loved  well  enough  to  watch  clouds  now 
beheld  them.  His  face  was  tilted  to  the  sky,  for  he  lay 
supine  in  the  heath  on  Hartland  Tor,  and  gazed  upward. 
But  for  once  he  perceived  nothing;  and  though  the  tur- 
moil above  was  miniatured  on  his  blue  eyes,  mind  had 
drawn  a  shutter  between  the  image  of  these  things  and 
Philip  Ouldsbroom's  brain.  Therein  clouds  of  another 
pattern  ran  together,  but  a  sudden  incident  aroused  him 
out  of  his  thoughts.  There  was  a  rush  and  hurtle  of 
wings  overhead  and  a  frightened  scutter  of  lesser  wings. 
A  great  bird  recovered  itself  after  a  futile  stroke,  and 
soared  away  gleaming;  a  lesser  bird  sped  by  and  dashed 
with  trembling  speed  into  the  heart  of  a  furze  brake.  A 
kestrel  had  struck  at  a  linnet  and  missed  her. 

The  man  laughed. 

"Ah!  my  bold  hero,  you  must  hawk  better  than  that 
if  you  want  a  dinner, ' '  he  said. 

Then  his  eyes  followed  the  quarry. 

''Good  luck  to  the  little  un!"  he  added. 

The  man's  heart  was  accurately  revealed  in  this  atti- 
tude to  pursuer  and  pursued.  He  could  find  it  in  him  to 
view  both  with  friendliness  and  sympathy. 

His  thoughts  turned  inward  again,  lighted  by  the  inci- 
dent. 

Again  he  laughed  to  himself,  drew  a  pipe  from  his 
pocket  and  wiped  his  head,  which  was  hot  from  long 
basking  in  the  sun. 

"Hope  I  shan't  strike  and  miss,  like  thicky  criss- 
hawk!"  he  thought. 

He  smoked,  and  his  mind  mirrored  a  fellow  creature. 
He  saw  a  sturdy,  strongly  built  girl  of  two-and-twenty. 


6  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

clad  in  earth-colours — a  Moor  woman  whose  features 
were  regular,  whose  dark  grey  eyes  were  bright,  whose 
hair  was  black,  whose  bosom  was  deep  and  large.  She 
had  no  great  beauty  in  his  opinion;  but  she  possessed 
what  he  lacked,  and  he  had  thought  of  her  as  a  wife. 

"Unity!"  he  said  out  loud,  and  stretched  in  the  hot 
heather  and  felt  the  sun  burn.  "A  brave  name  that. 
'Unity  Crymes';  but  'Unity  Ouldsbroom'  come  she 
takes  me. ' ' 

His  thoughts  rambled  backward;  he  looked  at  a  black 
band  on  his  coat  and  remembered  a  hawk  that  had  struck 
and  not  missed. 

' '  Too  old,  some  might  say — too  old  for  a  wench  in  her 
early  twenties;  but  none  who  knows  me.  Forty — what's 
forty  to  the  likes  of  me?  Forty  years  wise  and  twenty 
years  old — that 's  what  I  be. " 

This  man's  widowed  father  had  recently  died  and  left 
him  lonely.  He  dwelt  at  Hartland  Farm  above  the  ham- 
let of  Postbridge,  and  upon  his  parent's  passing  became 
the  owner  of  that  tenement. 

"The  old  chap  was  seventy-eight,  barring  two  days, 
when  he  dropped,"  thought  Philip — "and  he  died  a  boy. 
At  least,  that's  how  Barbara  put  it.  And  me — why, 
she'd  say  I  wasn't  old  enough  to  marry!" 

After  a  gap  in  his  thoughts,  he  rose  suddenly. 

"Talking  of  Barbara — I'll  go  and  see  her.  'Tis  the 
middle  time  of  day,  and  the  shop 's  like  to  be  empty. ' ' 

He  shook  himself  and  strode  off  down  the  ferny  slope 
above  his  home,  where  it  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  tor. 
To  the  valley  he  went,  passed  beside  Dart,  crossed  the 
bridge  and  entered  a  low,  slate-roofed  and  whitewashed 
house  close  at  hand. 

Here  a  department  of  the  State  had  local  habitation, 
and  the  business  of  the  Post  Office  was  pursued  through 
that  strange  odour  only  to  be  smelled  in  such  little  gen- 
eral shops  as  Barbara  Hext  controlled  at  Postbridge. 

At  one  end  of  the  counter,  behind  an  open  wire  grille, 
was  the  postal  apparatus  of  ink-bottles,  pens,  red  blot- 
ting-paper and  the  rest.  Advertisements  and  announce- 
ments hung  here,  and  an  unusual  air  of  neatness  and 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  7 

briskness  characterised  the  place.  Even  to  the  tele- 
graphic forms  and  the  pencil  fastened  to  a  string  beside 
them,  all  was  tidy  and  trim. 

The  shop  counter  spread  from  this  sanctity,  and  here, 
too,  there  lacked  the  usual  confusion  of  mingled  goods. 
Everything  proper  to  such  a  place  appeared ;  but  every- 
thing was  orderly.  Tubs  of  lard  and  butter,  sides  of 
bacon,  sections  of  cheese,  tins  of  sugar,  raisins  and  tea, 
boxes  of  chocolates  and  bottles  of  sweets  came  in  the  first 
department.  With  them  other  comestibles  were  ranged, 
and  then  a  barrier  separated  the  next  division,  and  one 
turned  to  china,  ornamental  and  useful,  saucepans, 
mouse-traps,  oil  cans,  tools,  string,  knives,  ditchers'  gloves 
and  sickles,  various  contrivances  such  as  corkscrews  and 
beer-taps  on  cards,  wire  nails,  and  countless  other  prac- 
tical matters.  Beyond  again  were  woollen  and  cotton 
goods,  men's  braces  and  women's  sun-bonnets,  together 
with  children's  garments  and  the  rough  raiment  in  de- 
mand on  Dartmoor. 

The  mingled  odours  of  these  things  hung  in  the  air; 
but  even  that  was  modified  by  their  skilful  distribution. 
A  suggestion  of  ample  accommodation  implied  by  so 
much  variety,  in  reality  did  not  embrace  it.  The  shop 
was  very  small,  yet  so  perfect  and  systematic  were  the 
arrangements,  that  the  mistress  of  it  was  never  in  a 
hurry  and  never  at  a  loss.  On  a  large  card  that  extended 
half  the  length  of  the  shop,  were  these  words,  '7/  you 
don't  see  what  you  want,  ask  for  it.' 

The  mistress  of  this  establishment  was  called  Barbara 
Hext.  She  came  of  old  Postbridge  stock,  but  had  lived 
a  part  of  her  life  in  London  and  elsewhere.  Scandals 
were  rumoured  concerning  her  past,  but  her  wits  none 
questioned,  and  when  she  returned  to  her  native  village 
as  a  peace-loving,  still  handsome  woman  of  fifty-five; 
when  she  succeeded  the  retiring  postmaster  and  opened 
a  little  shop,  she  was  well  received  and  no  questions  asked 
concerning  her  career.  Many  liked  and  a  few  disliked 
her,  but  none  doubted  her  sense  or  the  value  of  her  opin- 
ions, even  though  they  ran  counter  to  the  accepted, 
seasoned  wisdom  of  the  village. 


8  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

She  sat  now  eating  a  sandwich  of  bread-and-cheese  be- 
hind her  counter,  and  casting  figures  in  a  long  narrow 
ledger.  Her  face  was  furrowed  somewhat  at  the  cheeks, 
but  her  eyes  were  beautiful ;  her  mouth  possessed  the  firm, 
full  lines  and  fine  colour  of  a  young  woman 's ;  her  hair 
was  only  streaked  with  grey,  and  she  wore  a  plain  stuff 
dress  over  a  neat  and  bird-like  figure.  The  fascination  of 
sex  still  strongly  marked  her,  and  many  a  man  of  middle 
age  had  begged  her  to  share  his  life. 

There  entered  now  Philip  Ouldsbroom,  a  jovial  and 
Dionysian  spirit.  He  was  fair  and  flaxen,  with  crisp, 
sand-coloured  hair.  He  shaved  his  ruddy  face  clean  and 
displayed  a  full  throat,  that  went  without  a  collar  as 
often  as  possible.  His  teeth  were  white  and  perfect;  his 
mouth  was  large  and  easy,  and  readier  to  expand  than 
tighten.  His  fine  limbs  were  clad  carelessly  in  worn  gar- 
ments. Though  forty  years  old,  the  man's  heart  was 
younger,  and  his  trust  was  fuller  than  often  happens  at 
that  turning-point.  He  was  the  only  son  of  parents  who 
had  not  married  until  somewhat  late  in  life.  An  untrou- 
bled, prosperous  existence  had  fallen  to  him,  and  he  sel- 
dom looked  ahead  of  the  passing  hour.  But  now,  his  aged 
father  dying  suddenly,  he  was  turned  from  his  revels  and 
playthings  to  the  reality  of  mastership.  He  liked  women 
well,  but  with  a  regard  very  general  until  now.  They  too 
were  fond  of  him  and  spoiled  him.  He  was  often  on  their 
tongues.  At  present  not  a  few  wondered  where  his  choice 
of  a  wife  would  faU;  for  the  time  was  come.  Oulds- 
broom indeed  wanted  a  wife,  and  he  knew  the  girl  most 
likely  to  please  him. 

"Can  I  have  a  tell,  Barbara?"  he  asked.  "I  thought 
I'd  very  likely  catch  you  alone." 

*'And  welcome.  But  put  your  pipe  out  first — I  won't 
have  smoking  here — not  when  I  can  prevent  it, ' ' 

He  obeyed  her,  took  a  chair,  turned  its  back  to  the 
counter  and  straddled  his  legs  across  it.  A  dog  came  up 
and  greeted  him  with  effusion.  It  was  a  liver-coloured 
spaniel  and  belonged  to  Miss  Hext. 

Philip  helped  himself  to  biscuits  from  an  open  tin  and 
began  to  talk  with  his  mouth  full. 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  9 

**  'Tis  like  this — I  never  was  fond  of  putting  all  my 
eggs  in  one  basket. ' ' 

"  So  I  've  heard  the  women  say, ' '  she  answered  drily. 

"Bless  'em!  But  here  I  am — husband  old;  and  I 
want  a  wife. ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  and  took  off  a  pair  of  spectacles. 

With  her  glasses  Miss  Hext  appeared  to  cast  aside  not 
a  few  years  also. 

*'A  wife,  Philip?" 

"And  why  not?  I  must  have  somebody  to  leave  my 
farm  to.  And  'tis  time  I  set  about  thinking  on  him.  I 
talk  plain  to  you,  because  you're  the  sensiblest  female  in 
these  parts." 

"Might  be  that  and  not  very  witty.  Well,  who's  the 
poor  woman  ? ' ' 

Miss  Hext's  spaniel  was  sitting  up  with  her  eyes  on 
Ouldsbroom — the  image  of  patience  but  determined 
mendicity. 

"You  beauty!"  he  said,  and  stooped  down  and  rubbed 
his  cheek  against  her  muzzle.    Then  he  gave  her  a  biscuit. 

* '  The  very  dogs  see  through  you. ' ' 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

* '  Let  'em.    Well,  what  d  'you  say  to  Unity  Crymes  ? ' ' 

Barbara  did  not  answer,  and  he  helped  himself  again. 

*  *  Those  biscuits  are  for  sale, ' '  she  said. 

"You're  a  dear  woman,  and  the  loveliest  eyes  on  Dart- 
moor still,"  he  declared  irrelevantly.    "But  Unity?" 

"You  say  Unity;  I  say  Henry  Birdwood." 

"Damn  Henry  Birdwood!  'Tis  idle  talk,  for  I  asked 
her  brother  a  week  ago  and  he  knew  nought  of  it.  At 
least  he  only  said  there  might  be  something  in  it.  They'm 
all  Methodies  together ;  and  Unity  and  young  Birdwood 
meet  in  that  psalm-smiting  hole  up  the  village  and  shout 
from  the  same  hymn-book — that's  all." 

'  *  You  know  you  're  lying. ' ' 

He  grew  hot  and  his  face  turned  a  shade  redder.  He 
clenched  his  fist  and  banged  it  on  the  counter. 

"There's  nothing  in  it,  I  tell  you;  and  if  there  is? 
Him  a  shepherd  and  nought  to  hope  for  and  nought 
saved;  and  me — a  solid  man  with  a  farm  of  my  own." 


10  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

"And  forty  to  his  twenty-five." 

* '  What  then  ?  'Tis  fair  fighting,  Barbara ;  and  if  she*s 
the  woman  I  think,  she'll  know  which  side  her  bread's 
buttered." 

Miss  Hext  did  not  speak,  and  he  went  on  again. 

* '  D  'you  like  Birdwood  ? — honest  now. ' ' 

** That's  neither  here  nor  there." 

"You  know  you  hate  aU  Methodies.  And  Unity — I'll 
soon  stop  that  tomfoolery  when  I've  got  her." 

"Think  twice,"  she  said;  "though  I'm  a  fool  to  tell  a 
man  to  think  twice  who  so  seldom  thinks  at  alL  Don't 
you  offer  to  marry  Unity  Crymes. ' ' 

"Why  d 'you  say  that?" 

"Because  she's  the  sort  will  throw  over  the  other  and 
take  you;  and  he's  the  sort " 

"Stop!"  he  shouted  out.  "You're  aU  wrong  and  out 
of  bias  every  way.  How  can  she  throw  over  the  man 
afore  they'm  tokened?  Don't  I  tell  you  he's  nought  to 
her?" 

"Yes,  you  tell  me  so,  you  silly  chap;  but  what  do  you 
know  about  it?  Do  the  men  and  maidens  give  you  all 
their  secrets?  If  they  are  tokened,  does  it  follow  they've 
let  all  the  world  know  it  ?  They  are  the  silent,  sly  sort — 
both  of  'em;  and  they'U  doubtless  agree  to  wait  a  bit  till 
his  prospects  better " 

He  was  tramping  up  and  down  with  his  blue  eyes 
sulked  over  by  yellow  eyebrows. 

"You're  wrong;  you're  wrong,"  he  said.  Then  a 
thought  struck  him.  "Anyway,  if  I  offer  and  she's 
tokened  to  t'other,  she'll  have  to  tell  me  so." 

"And  then  what?  Then,  because  you  can't  have  her, 
you'll  raise  heaven  and  earth  and  fall  out  with  Birdwood 
and  make  a  lot  of  silly  trouble." 

"I  will  have  her  if  I'm  minded  to  it!" 

* '  If  you  could  have  her  for  the  asking — and  I  dare  say 
you  can,  whether  she's  promised  the  other  man  or  not — 
still,  I'd  say  you  were  terrible  mistaken." 

"Why — why?  What  folly  to  talk  to  a  grown  man  as 
if  he  was  a  boy. ' ' 

*  *  'Tis  worse  to  talk  to  a  boy  as  if  he  was  a  man.    But 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  11 

I'm  thinking  of  her,  not  you.  You're  not  the  husband 
for  her." 

There  came  an  interruption;  a  pony  clattered  to  the 
door  and  a  man  dismounted.  The  beast  was  rough,  its 
rider  was  rougher.  He  wore  scanty,  sun-tanned  clothes 
fretted  to  holes  and  rags ;  his  hat  was  green  with  age  and 
battered ;  his  shirt  was  also  tattered  and  scarcely  covered 
his  bosom.    Upon  one  boot  he  carried  a  spur. 

' '  Talk  of  the  devil  and  you  11  see  his  man, ' '  said  Philip. 
"Here's  Ned  Sleep,  from  Teign  Head." 

The  newcomer  entered,  pushed  back  his  hat,  and  with- 
out speech  brought  out  a  red  handkerchief  and  began  to 
untie  a  knot  in  the  corner  of  it.  He  was  grizzled  and  thin 
as  a  winter  hedge.  His  teeth  were  broken;  his  cheek- 
bones thrust  forth  above  the  bush  of  his  black  beard, 
and  his  small  eyes  were  also  obscured  by  the  long  hairs 
that  hung  over  from  his  eyebrows.  Forehead  he  had 
scarcely  any,  and  black  hair  descended  to  within  an  inch 
of  his  brows. 

"And  how  is  it  with  you,  Sleep?"  asked  Ouldsbroom. 
But  the  man  made  no  answer.  He  untied  the  laiot  in  his 
handkerchief  and  produced  a  coin. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Mr.  Sleep?"  inquired  the 
postmistress. 

The  customer  debated  the  question  with  a  certain 
furtive  caution.  It  was  half  a  minute  before  he  an- 
swered ;  and  then  in  a  hoarse  voice  he  spoke. 

"Penny  stamp,"  he  said,  and  put  down  his  penny. 

Philip  laughed. 

"And  have  'e  ridden  all  the  ways  from  Teign  Head 
for  that?"  he  asked. 

Again  Mr,  Sleep  weighed  his  answer  with  prolonged 
caution,  but  at  length  replied. 

' '  For  that, ' '  he  said,  like  an  echo. 

"And  how's  Henry  Birdwood?"  asked  the  master  of 
Hartland. 

Mr.  Sleep  took  his  stamp,  tied  it  up  in  the  handker- 
chief, and  prepared  to  depart. 

"Give  the  man  a  drink  of  cider,  Barbara,"  directed 
Ouldsbroom.    ' '  Wilt  have  a  drink,  Ned  ? ' ' 


12  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Sleep  reflected ;  but  the  answer  was  long  in  coming. 

"Thank  you — 'tis  drowthy  weather,"  he  answered. 

"And  draw  me  a  mug  too;  there's  a  dear  soul.  I've 
ate  your  biscuits  till  I  be  so  dry  as  an  old  bone. ' ' 

"While  Miss  Hext  obeyed,  Philip  asked  another  question. 

"And  what  for  do  you  want  a  stamp,  Ned?  I  didn't 
know  writing  was  in  your  line." 

The  Moor-man  looked  round  doubtfully,  and,  after 
private  consideration,  drew  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket. 

"One  of  they  fishing  gentlemen  left  it  on  the  river," 
he  said  very  slowly.  ' '  And  I  come  by  it.  And  I  read  it. ' ' 

He  stopped,  weary  of  words,  and  called  Ouldsbroom's 
attention  to  an  advertisement. 

"'Shepherd  wanted  —  no  incumbrances,'"  began 
Philip.    Then  he  read  on  to  himself. 

Miss  Hext  returned  with  two  pint  mugs  of  cider  upon 
a  tray. 

"Ned  here's  going  to  leave  Teign  Head,"  began  the 
farmer ;  but  Mr.  Sleep  put  up  his  hand  in  deprecation. 

' '  I  don 't  say  that — only — well — there  'tis :  eighteen 
shillings  a  week. ' ' 

' '  And  don 't  Gregory  Twigg  give  you  that  ? ' ' 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"Be  damned  if  I'd  stop  an  hour,"  swore  Ouldsbroom. 

* '  Does  he  laiow  you  think  to  leave  him,  Ned  ? ' ' 

Sleep  drank  half  his  cider  and  the  others  talked  to- 
gether. Then,  when  the  postmistress  had  forgotten  her 
question,  he  answered  it. 

"I  showed  him  the  paper." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

' '  He  said — he  said  'twas  a  free  country — no  more. ' ' 

"Free!"  scoffed  Miss  Hext.  "Even  Twigg  knows 
that's  a  lie.    Show  me  a  free  man." 

Mr.  Sleep  shook  his  head. 

"Freedom's  a  very  dangerous  thing,  ma'am,"  he  said. 
"For  my  part  I  wouldn't  trust  it.  I  ban't  wishful  to 
feel  what  'tis  like,  I  'm  sure.  Still,  I  've  a  right  to  lift  my 
eye  to  eighteen  shillings." 

"This  paper's  three  weeks  old,  however,"  .said  Philip. 

Sleep  drank  the  rest  of  his  cider  and  nodded  while  he 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  13 

did  so.  Then,  when  he  had  wiped  his  mouth  on  his  neck- 
kerchief,  he  replied : 

"  'Twas  but  two  days  old  when  I  corned  by  it;  but  a 
man  doesn't  change  his  state  of  life  without  a  power  of 
thought. ' ' 

' '  Bah !  You  ought  to  have  been  a  toad  in  a  hole, ' '  said 
the  farmer.    ' '  Get  along  with  you ! ' ' 

Ned  without  more  words  put  his  paper  back  in  his 
pocket  and  prepared  to  depart,  but  when  he  had  reached 
the  door,  he  returned,  lifted  his  boot  on  a  box  and  re- 
moved his  solitary  spur.  Then  he  put  it  upon  the  other 
boot. 

"I  kicked  pony  on  left  side  coming  down,"  he  ex- 
plained; "but  I'll  kick  un  'pon  right  side  going  back." 

"A  fair-minded  fool,"  laughed  Ouldsbroom.  "And  you 

can  tell  Birdwood "  he  broke  off  while  Ned  stood  still. 

' '  'Tis  no  odds, ' '  concluded  Philip.  "  I  '11  tell  him  myself. ' ' 

"And  what  were  you  going  to  tell  him?"  asked  Bar- 
bara when  the  horseman  had  ridden  away. 

"Why — just  to  keep  his  paws  off  Unity  Crymes;  but 
then  I  thought  I  'd  do  wiser  to  see  her  first. ' ' 

"A  very  clever  thought  for  certain." 

"And  what  was  you  going  to  tell  me  against  her?" 
he  asked  suddenly.  "You'd  got  something  to  say  when 
that  zany  come  in  and  threw  it  out  of  your  head. ' ' 

"As  well  he  did  belike.  You  mind  your  own  business, 
Philip,  and  I'll  mind  mine." 

■ '  Mine 's  simple.  I  'm  going  up  to  Stannon  this  instant 
moment. ' ' 

' '  Mine 's  simple  too.    You  owe  me  twopence  for  cider. ' ' 

He  paid  her  and  then  challenged  her. 

' '  Look  here  now :  I  '11  bet  you  a  side  of  bacon  to  three 
of  them  big  boxes  of  chocolate  that  Unity  Crymes  will  be 
tokened  to  me  this  time  to-morrow.  And,  if  I  win,  she 
shall  have  the  sweeties  to-morrow  night,  and  if  I  lose, 
you  shall  have  the  bacon  afore  Michaelmas. ' ' 

She  declined  the  wager. 

"I'm  more  like  to  lose  than  win,"  she  answered. 

"Ha-ha!"  he  crowed;  "that's  a  pretty  good  compli- 
ment to  me,  Barbara." 


14  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

''It  may  be;  but  'tis  a  pretty  poor  one  to  the  woman. 
Just  think  of  that.  If  she  refuses  you,  then  she 's  a  better 
piece  than  I  take  her  for;  and  if  she  don't — the  Lord 
help  you ! ' ' 

"The  stuif  even  a  wise  creature  can  talk!  D'you 
think  I  don't  know  all  about  her  and  her  sense  and 
cleverness  ? ' ' 

' '  You  know  all  about  a  woman ! ' '  she  answered. 
"That  bitch  knows  more  about  'em  than  you  do — or 
ever  will. ' ' 

The  spaniel  wagged  her  tail  and  cringed  to  his  hand. 

"Will  you  dance  at  the  wedding,  whether  or  no?" 
asked  Philip. 

Some  children  entered  the  shop,  and  the  farmer,  diving 
in  his  pocket,  found  three  halfpence  for  them,  called 
them  by  their  names,  picked  up  a  very  small  boy,  set  him 
high  aloft  on  an  empty  shelf  and  then  went  off.  The 
children  shouted  with  laughter,  and  Miss  Hext  had  to 
fetch  a  pair  of  steps  before  she  could  rescue  the  baby 
from  his  perch. 


CHAPTER  III 

Certain  tenement  farms  of  Dartmoor  lie  in  the  rich 
regions  about  East  Dart,  and  save  where  the  Duchy  of 
Cornwall  has  acquired  them,  they  continue  to  be  free- 
holds independent  of  the  surrounding  Forest. 

Hartland's  most  ancient  walls  still  rise  under  the  tor 
that  names  them,  and  beneath,  as  the  vale  opens  south- 
ward, stand  the  snug  and  clustered  homesteads  of  Lower 
Merripit;  Runnage,  risen  from  its  ashes  with  fine,  dawn- 
facing  front;  the  ruin  of  Walna;  Dury  in  the  mire — 
black  and  white  behind  its  oaken  grove;  Peshull's  three, 
massive  dwellings,  their  mediaeval  walls  in  places  five  feet 
thick.  With  this  venerable  abode  and  Hartland,  the  ad- 
jacent Bellaford's  deep-eaved  homesteads  vie  in  age;  and 
lower  yet,  where  Dart  approaches  her  sister  stream  from 
the  west,  stand  the  old  mill  of  Babenay,  Redden,  not  far 
distant,  and  Brimpts  upon  the  river's  western  bank. 

Under  ancient  laws  the  heirs  of  these  old-time  tene- 
ments, or  those  who  might  purchase  the  inheritance  of 
them,  were  at  liberty  to  enclose  eight  further  acres  of  the 
waste  upon  payment  of  an  annual  shilling  for  the  use  of 
the  reigning  monarch.  These  additional  acres  were  called 
'the  newtake';  and  as  a  result  of  the  privilege,  there 
sprang  up  an  order  of  enclosed  lands  with  dwelling- 
houses  upon  them.  Such  extensions  have  in  process  of 
time  become  farms  on  their  own  account,  and  we  find 
now,  in  addition  to  the  homesteads  mentioned  above,  not 
a  few  centres  of  husbandry  sprung  from  them.  Of  these 
may  be  named  Higher  Merripit  and  Stannon,  near  Post- 
bridge  ;  Bellaf ord  Combe  and  Laughtor  Hole  in  the  great 
valley  below. 

15 


16  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Another  group  of  tenements  shall  be  found  nigh  West 
Dart;  but  our  concern  is  with  a  few  of  those  already 
mentioned. 

To  Stannon  farm,  beneath  the  hill  of  that  name,  Philip 
Ouldsbroom  now  turned  his  steps,  tramped  the  modern 
thoroughfare  of  the  i\Ioor  for  a  space,  then  left  it  half  way 
up  Merripit  Hill  and  struck  out  northerly  over  the  heather. 

Presently,  far  beneath  him,  appeared  the  little  farm. 

Seen  from  these  lofty  slopes,  where  they  extend  and 
form  a  giant  easel  for  sunset  to  paint  upon,  little  Stannon 
lay  under  its  parent  hill  amid  small  crofts.  The  home- 
stead looked  like  a  grey  hen  with  wings  outspread  above 
her  chickens,  for  the  walls  sloped  to  right  and  left  of 
the  main  mass  in  a  manner  simple  and  symmetrical. 
Dwarfed  to  a  spot  appeared  the  farm  under  the  tor  that 
swept  to  the  sky  above  it.  A  brook  wound  beneath  and 
descended  from  its  cradle  of  rushes  upon  White  Ridge. 
Its  fountains  glittered  in  a  lace  of  silver  that,  crossing 
and  recrossing,  w^ove  patterns  upon  the  hill,  then  tumbled 
into  one  channel  and  began  their  work  by  carrying  sweet 
water  to  Stannon. 

To  the  south,  below  the  farm,  the  valley  opened  and 
wound  toward  Postbridge  through  marshy  bottoms  of 
mire  and  scrub.  But  the  birch  and  alder  that  aforetime 
flourished  here  are  gone,  though  often  a  turf-cutter  digs 
their  ghostly  limbs,  still  cased  in  silvery  bark,  from 
guardianship  of  the  prophylactic  peat. 

Ouldsbroom  descended  the  hill,  fell  into  a  rutted  road 
that  woimd  to  the  farm,  crossed  the  brook  and  opened 
the  wicket.  He  made  no  ado  at  the  door,  but  entered  to 
find  the  folk  of  Stannon  at  their  dinner.  Four  people 
sat  beside  the  table  and  consumed  the  second  course  of 
their  meal — suet  pudding  with  treacle. 

Quinton  Crymes  was  a  thin,  brown  man  of  thirty ;  but 
the  robust  and  ruddy  Gertrude,  his  wife,  numbered  sev- 
eral years  less.  They  had  been  married  a  year,  and  she 
was  with  child.  Unity  Crymes,  the  farmer's  sister,  and 
his  labourer,  one  James  Coaker,  completed  the  house- 
hold. The  girl  was  clad  in  colours  that  had  once  been 
bright,  but  were  now  faded  into  dingy  harmony.    Green, 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  17 

blue  and  grey  were  felt  as  tones  of  her  raiment;  yet  so 
modified  and  stained  had  they  become,  that  she  might 
have  passed  unperceived  among  the  stones,  dead  heath, 
and  fading  brake  fern  of  the  waste.  Her  dark  hair  was 
rough,  her  skirt  was  short,  and  her  legs  sturdy.  Her  full 
figure  suggested  maternity,  her  face  was  not  unhand- 
some, largely  modelled,  and  strong.  She  was  a  creature 
indigenous  to  the  Moor  as  rock  or  fern.  She  could  read 
and  write ;  she  possessed  great  decision  of  character  and 
a  secretive  mind.  Will  power  had  run  through  the 
woman-mould  in  her  family.  The  men  were  feebler  and 
their  wives  generally  ruled  them.  Two  elder  brothers 
and  two  elder  sisters  she  had;  but  none  save  Quinton 
offered  her  a  home.  One  of  her  sisters  was  married  to  a 
huckster  at  Chagford ;  the  other  was  in  service  at  Exeter. 
The  head  of  the  family,  John  Crymes,  worked  in  the 
granite  quarries  nigh  Princetown  and  lived  there  with 
his  wife  and  children;  while  to  Quinton  the  farm  of 
Stannon  had  descended  from  his  grandfather.  Unity 
abode  here  for  the  present,  but  Mrs.  Crymes  indicated 
that  space  at  Stannon  would  be  precious  anon.  'When 
my  third  comes,'  she  said  with  prophetic  assurance, 
'her '11  have  to  go.' 

It  seemed  probable,  however,  that  Unity  might  find  a 
home  of  her  own  before  that  event.  The  shepherd,  Henry 
Birdwood,  was  courting  her,  and  albeit  she  kept  her  own 
counsel  in  a  manner  very  steadfast,  Quinton  and  his 
wife  both  guessed  that  their  neighbour  from  Teign  Head 
would  be  the  man.  The  farmer  marvelled  that  such  a 
good-looking  youth  as  Birdwood  could  think  twice  of  a 
woman  in  whom  his  fraternal  eyes  saw  nothing;  but  he 
was  none  the  less  glad;  and  he  and  his  wife  did  what 
they  could  to  further  the  match. 

"Pick  a  bit  with  us,  Ouldsbroom,"  said  Quinton. 
"  'Tis  a  longful  time  since  you  was  over  here." 

"I'll  drink,  if  Unity  will  fetch  me  a  mug,"  said  the 
visitor.  ' '  Then,  if  she 's  done  her  meat,  I  want  to  speak 
to  her." 

Everybody  was  well  used  to  Philip 's  direct  and  abrupt 
methods.     Though  a  man  who  hated  business,  he  was, 


18  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

by  this  accident  of  impatience,  not  a  bad  business  man. 
His  nature  took  him  to  the  root  of  things.  In  love,  in 
work,  in  pleasure,  in  pain,  he  went  to  the  point  by  the 
shortest  road  he  could  find.  Nevertheless,  this  attitude 
to  life  did  not  prevent  him  from  wasting  the  greater  part 
of  his  time ;  but  when  something  was  to  do,  he  did  it  with 
the  utmost  expedition ;  delay  was  suffocation  to  him  a,nd 
patience  a  virtue  beyond  his  temperamental  powers  to 
practise. 

His  demand  to  speak  with  Unity  surprised  nobody, 
therefore.  The  families  were  old  friends  and  had  inter- 
married in  a  past  generation. 

Philip  drank,  uttered  a  few  vague  speeches,  hoped  that 
all  was  well  with  his  neighbours,  and  exhibited  uncon- 
cealed impatience.  But  Unity  made  no  haste.  She 
smiled  out  of  her  dark  grey  eyes  at  her  sister-in-law  when 
the  visitor  arose  and  strode  to  the  window ;  then  she  took 
some  more  of  the  pudding. 

Ouldsbroom  ceased  to  speak,  but  gave  off  a  vigorous 
puff  or  two  and,  at  last,  sitting  down  again,  began  strik- 
ing his  leathern  leggings  with  his  stick. 

Quinton  whispered  under  his  breath  to  his  sister. 

' '  Get  on !    Don 't  keep  the  man  waiting ! ' ' 

Still  she  took  no  notice. 

Then  the  master  of  Stannon  strove  to  make  conver- 
sation. 

' '  Foxes  be  plenty  for  the  hunters  this  autumn,  Oulds- 
broom. ' ' 

"Ess  fay — and  geese  will  be  few,"  said  his  wife 
feelingly.  ''Another  of  my  fine  goslings  gone.  The 
bowldacious  varmints  come  down  over  in  broad  daylight. 
Unity  seed  one  lying  watchin  'em,  like  a  rich  man  watches 
his  money,  didn't  you,  Unity?" 

' '  Yes,  I  did, ' '  said  the  girl.  Then  she  drank  some  water, 
wiped  her  mouth  on  the  fall  of  the  table-cloth,  and  rose. 

"  I  'm  ready  now,  Mr.  Philip, ' '  she  said. 

"Come  on  then,"  he  answered,  starting  up.  "Best  to 
get  your  sun-bonnet. ' ' 

"No,  I  don't  want  it.  The  sun  can't  come  through  my 
hair." 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  19 

He  looked  at  her  admiringly — her  heavy  locks  curled 
neatly  up,  her  clean-turned  brown  face,  her  firm  mouth, 
and  her  big  bosom. 

They  went  out  together,  and  Gertrude  wondered  what 
fancy  was  got  into  Ouldsbroom  's  head. 

"He've  always  been  friendly  enough  to  her — and  to 
everything  personable  in  a  petticoat,  for  that  matter.  It 
surely  can't  be  that  he  cares  a  jot  about  her?"  she  asked. 

Quinton  shook  his  head. 

"  'Tis  beyond  reason.  I  can't  picture  the  man  mar- 
ried.   And  yet  like  enough  now  his  father's  gone Of 

course  'twould  be  a  terrible  fine  thing, ' '  he  mused. 

"Don't  fancy  such  nonsense,"  answered  the  woman. 
"  'Twould  be  terrible  fine,  as  you  say,  but  terrible  fine 
things  don't  happen  in  your  family.  Besides,  we  know 
very  well  she 's  so  good  as  promised  to  Henry  Birdwood. ' ' 

Meantime  Philip  and  the  girl  left  Stannon. 

* '  Come  as  far  as  the  sheepf old, ' '  he  said.  ' '  'Tis  out  of 
the  way  and  a  nice  bit  of  shade  in  the  ruin. ' ' 

She  laughed  and  did  not  guess  his  purpose, 

"Lord  love  it!"  she  cried;  "don't  travel  so  fast,  I've 
just  had  my  dinner. ' ' 

He  stayed  his  speed. 

"To  think — to — think "  he  began.    "How  old  are 

you — twenty- two — eh  ? ' ' 

"Twenty-two  last  month." 

'  *  And  I  never  gived  you  a  gift. ' ' 

"Why  should  you?" 

"I'm  forty." 

"Never!" 

"Well,  'tis  so,  unless  the  front  leaf  of  our  old  Bible's 
a  liar.    Forty ;  but  don 't  feel  it,  or  anything  near  it. ' ' 

' '  Nor  look  it,  I  'm  sure. ' ' 

' '  Glad  to  hear  you  say  that. ' ' 

"You've  worn  well." 

* '  Ess,  I  have — along  of  being  in  the  open  air  and  keep- 
ing an  open  mind.  I  often  go  at  this  time  of  year  and 
sleep  up  in  the  hills — just  for  love  of  the  wakening.  I've 
got  holts  like  the  foxes  up-along.  I'll  show  'em  to  you 
some  day." 


20  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

He  rambled  on  and  she  still  wondered. 

"D'you  know  what  I'd  like  to  happen  best  in  the 
world  ? "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"How  should  I?" 

"Why!"  he  burst  out,  "for  me  and  you  to  sleep  all 
night  together  in  my  den  up  under  Cut  Hill !" 

' '  Be  you  out  of  your  mind  ? ' ' 

"Not  I.  My  mind's  made  up  firm  as  a  rock;  and, 
look  here,  damn  it,  I  can 't  wait  till  we  get  to  the  fold ' ' 

He  cast  a  glance  round  about  the  empty  Moor,  then 
turned  to  her. 

"Sit  down  'pon  this  stone  and  listen  to  me.  I  want  a 
wife,  and  there 's  only  one  woman  will  do.  Only  one.  And 
you're  the  woman — you — you!  Don't  stare  as  if  'twas 
a  thunderbolt.  I  will  have  it  so.  Unity.  I've  thought  of 
it  time  and  again  since  father  died.  I  love  you — every  bit 
of  you.  I  'm  well  to  do.  You  shall  have  a  servant.  Some- 
how it's  come  over  me  with  a  rush  these  late  days.  It 
must  be.  I'm  not  half  good  enough  for  such  a  rare  fine 
girl;  but  all  the  same  it  must  be.    It  shall,  I  tell  you." 

He  sat  down,  and  she  felt  his  heavy  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der, pulling  her  beside  him.  Her  frame  grew  suddenly 
weak  and  limp  from  head  to  heel  at  this  amazing  pro- 
posal. She  sank  near  the  man,  then  wriggled  farther  off 
as  he  made  to  put  his  arm  round  her.  But  her  nerve 
steadied  quickly. 

' '  This  be  too  awful  sudden, ' '  she  said,  and  he  saw  that 
though  her  voice  was  steady  her  breast  was  not,  and  her 
colour  was  not.  She  panted  and  she  glowed.  Then  she 
grew  pale  and  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom,  where  these 
sudden  emotions  had  raised  an  oppression. 

"Everything  with  any  taste  to  it  comes  sudden — good 
or  bad.  I'm  always  sudden.  But  I'm  a  good  laster. 
You  won 't  repent  it.  Proud  I  '11  be  to  fetch  and  carry  for 
you,  Unity,  and  make  you  the  first  woman  in  Postbridge. ' ' 

She  did  not  answer,  but  her  mind  moved  with  swift 
calculation  and  she  weighed  all  that  this  must  mean.  Here 
was  a  man  very  eligible  in  her  eyes  and  a  man  easy  to  be 
ruled.  She  had  known  him  for  five  years  and  appraised 
his  temper  very  accurately.     He  only  needed  the  right 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  21 

hand  and  the  light  one.  But  the  other  man — the  man 
she  loved — would  try  to  rule  her.  She  had  always  realised 
this,  and  had  fancied  that  to  be  ruled  was  easier  than  to 
rule,  and  probably  in  the  long  run  pleasanter;  yet  now 
the  new  prospect  thrust  so  fiercely  before  her  suggested 
that  to  reign  over  a  rich  man  might  be  a  finer  thing  than 
to  be  ruled  by  a  poor  one.  Roughly  that  was  the  problem 
cast  before  her ;  but  her  knowledge  of  Philip  Ouldsbroom 
and  Henry  Birdwood  complicated  it. 

Characteristic  of  the  woman's  devious  spirit  was  the 
fact  that  one  paramount  condition  in  this  problem  she 
ignored.    She  had  promised  to  marry  Birdwood. 

"Speak"!  cried  Philip  at  length.  "I  can't  stand  this. 
I'm  burning  alive!  'Tis  the  first  time,  mind — the  first 
and  the  last,  for  'yes'  I  will  have.  Who  be  you — a  pretty, 
dinky  chit  of  a  cheel  like  you — to  know  better  what's 
good  for  you  than  a  grown  man  like  me?  You're  the 
first — the  very,  very  first,  Unity.  God  strike  me  down 
this  minute  if  you  ban't  the  only  woman  that  I've  ever 
axed  to  marry  me.  And  d'you  think  I've  waited  forty 
year  to  hear  '  no '  ?  Not  I !  There 's  only  one  answer  for 
me,  and  the  quicker  said  the  sooner  comes  my  peace 
again.    'Tis  a  bargain — quick ! ' ' 

"What's  the  bargain  then?"  she  asked — to  gain  time. 

"That  you  come  to  Hartland  and  take  all  I've  got  to 
give  you,  and  love  me  evermore  through  thick  and  thin 
till  the  end  of  us. ' ' 

* '  You  '11  want  somebody  to  look  after  your  money  ? ' ' 

"The  money  looks  after  itself.  I  want  somebody  to 
look  after  me.  I  want  you — only  you.  Will  you  come? 
I  wish  you  could  come  now  this  minute. ' ' 

Her  self-contained  nature  withstood  these  shocks.  A 
mile  off  in  the  valley  she  saw  a  man  slowly  pushing  for- 
ward on  a  pony.  Before  him  drifted  half  a  hundred 
sheep.    Philip 's  back  was  turned  to  the  rider. 

' '  You  must  give  me  time, ' '  she  said. 

"Why — why — what  d'you  want  time  for?  Time  was 
made  for  slaves.  'Tis  only  to  waste  it,  if  you  take  it. 
The  answer's  got  to  be  'yes.'  I  will  have  you,  I  tell 
you. ' ' 


22  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

"Go  your  ways  and  leave  me,"  she  said.  "I  won't 
keep  you  waiting  long — I  promise  that;  but  a  maiden 
can't  decide  the  whole  of  her  life  in  a  moment.  'Tisn't 
true  love  to  want  to  make  her. ' ' 

He  flogged  his  legs  and  stamped  his  heels  into  the  earth. 

* '  What  a  nuisance  that  you  can 't  see  it  and  feel  it  like 
me.  A  toad  under  a  harroAV  I  shall  be  till  you  say  '  yes. '  ' ' 

"I'll  make  up  my  mind  so  swift  as  I  can." 

"I'll  come  over  to-night  then." 

"That's  too  soon,  Mr.  Philip." 

"Drop  that  'Mister.'  I  won't  have  it — as  if  I  was  a 
stranger  instead  of  your  husband.  To-morrow  morning- 
then  ?  I  don 't  wait  an  hour  longer.  Why,  what  the  hell 
d'you  want  to  keep  me  on  tenterhooks  all  these  hours 
for  ?    And  loving  me  all  the  time,  I  '11  swear. ' ' 

"Go  now,"  she  said.  "And  come  back  to  me  to-mor- 
row, if  you  must.  And  think  terrible  serious  about  it. 
Belike  you're  making  a  fool  of  yourself  so  well  as  me." 

"Kiss  me  then!"  he  said.  "You  shall — ^you  shall,  or 
I'll  give  you  no  peace.  I  swore  when  I  woke  this  morn 
that  I  'd  kiss  you  afore  night. ' ' 

"There's  a  man  in  the  valley." 

* '  Let  him  rot  there !  What 's  any  other  man  in  the 
world  to  you  but  me  ? ' ' 

Before  she  could  stop  him  he  put  his  arms  round  her, 
held  her  tight  to  him  and  kissed  her  all  over  her  face. 

' '  To-morrow ! "  he  said.  ' '  And  now  I  be  going  to  ride 
hell  for  leather  to  Tavistock  for  to  buy  you  a  proper  ring 
with  a  proper  jool  in  it ! " 

He  went  off  to  the  west,  and  Unity  remained  sitting  on 
the  stone  where  he  had  left  her.  She  put  up  a  lock  of  hair 
from  her  face  and  considered  the  situation.  Ouldsbroom 
was  soon  out  of  sight  on  his  direct  road  to  Hartland,  but 
the  man  behind  the  sheep  began  to  get  nearer.  He  could 
not  see  her  where  she  sat,  yet  she  marked  him  clearly, 
and  noted  that  he  hesitated  at  a  point  where  two  tracks 
met  and  ran  into  each  other  on  the  way  to  Postbridge. 

One  road  would  have  taken  Henry  Birdwood  by  Stan- 
non  and  given  his  sheep  an  additional  journey  before  he 
reached  their  destined  pasture ;  the  other  road  was  more 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  23 

direct  and  led  onward  into  the  Moor  past  the  ruined 
sheepfold  a  few  hundred  yards  from  Unity's  present 
position. 

Birdwood  took  the  shorter  way  and  denied  himself  a 
possible  glimpse  of  the  woman  he  loved.  She  watched 
him  and,  in  her  mind's  eye,  saw  him. 

Her  bent  of  spirit  rather  sought  than  evaded  him  at 
this  crisis.  The  prospect  of  becoming  Ouldsbroom  's  wife 
was  far  too  splendid  to  ignore,  even  before  the  possibility 
of  treachery  to  a  man  she  liked  better.  But  for  the  mo- 
ment it  struck  her  that  some  hint  of  events,  some  shadow 
of  doubt,  had  better  be  thrown  as  quickly  as  she  could 
throw  it  over  her  betrothed 's  life. 

The  opportunity  had  been  thrust  upon  her,  and  oppor- 
tunity she  was  not  made  to  miss. 

In  her  heart  she  knew  already  that  she  meant  to 
marry  Ouldsbroom.  She  recognised  no  moral  side  to  this 
abrupt  defection.  She  did  not  love  Birdwood  any  the 
less.  She  left  the  details  to  look  after  themselves.  Her 
present  purpose  was  to  tackle  a  painful  and  trying  neces- 
sity before  she  had  leisure  to  think  any  more  about  it. 
She  was  a  sort  of  spirit  who  hated  time  to  pass  between 
her  and  execution  of  things  difficult  or  unpleasant,  and  in 
this  trait  she  resembled  the  man  who  had  just  offered  to 
marry  her. 

Unity  waited  until  the  elder  man  was  out  of  sight; 
then  she  went  down  to  the  sheepfold  and  surprised  Henry 
Birdwood  as  he  passed  it  on  his  way  homeward. 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  ruined  sheepfold  stood  four-square  on  the  western 
slope  of  Stannon  Hill.  Built  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago, 
at  the  time  when  many  enthusiastic  spirits  discovered 
Dartmoor  and  dreamed  dreams  of  prosperity  to  be  dug 
from  her  bowels  or  garnered  on  her  breast,  it  adds  one 
to  a  long  list  of  futile  enterprises  and  lies  forlorn  among 
the  hills — historic  evidence  that  even  the  toil  of  a  Scot 
may  miscarry.  Down  the  midst  run  parallel  rows  of 
great  stones,  and  at  the  eastern  extremity  still  stand  the 
roofless  remains  of  a  dwelling-house.  The  place  was 
burned  down  long  ago ;  a  little  girl  perished  in  the  fire ; 
and  her  harmless,  small,  sad  spectre  still  haunts  her 
home,  according  to  the  fable  of  the  folk. 

Hither  now  came  Henry  Birdwood,  and  as  he  passed, 
Unity  stepped  from  the  ruin  and  called  him. 

' '  Good  luck ! "  he  cried,  ' '  and  vartue  rewarded  too 
for  I  was  in  a  mind  to  call  at  Stannon  to  win  a  sight  of  'e 
then  I  held  on  my  shortest  way  for  the  sake  of  the  sheep. ' 

He  shouted  a  direction  to  his  two  dogs,  waved  his  arm 
and  indicated  his  purpose.  They  understood  it,  and  with 
hasty  excursions  to  right  and  left,  with  barking  and  riot 
and  occasional  further  messages  from  their  master,  they 
gathered  the  sheep  into  the  ancient  fold.  Here  grew 
plenty  of  grass,  and  the  flock,  footsore  and  hot,  was  well 
content  to  rest.  Many  among  them  crept  into  the  shadow 
of  the  broken  walls  and  panted  themselves  cool;  others 
began  immediately  to  graze;  the  dogs  took  station  of 
vantage  on  a  knap,  and  there  sat  down  and  kept  watch 
with  lolling  tongues. 

24 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  25 

Henry  Birdwood  was  a  slim,  wiry  man  of  five-and- 
twenty.  No  special  distinction  marked  his  features.  He 
wore  a  close  brown  beard  and  whiskers;  his  nose  was 
straight  and  rather  finely  modelled.  His  eyes  were  slate- 
grey  and  his  forehead  high.  A  general,  lifeless,  rectitude 
marked  his  days.  He  was  the  son  of  a  wandering  preacher 
and,  albeit  separated  by  many  years  from  parental  con- 
trol, had  preserved  the  lessons  of  youth,  lived  a  self-re- 
specting life  and  practised  the  precepts  of  his  father.  He 
was  alone  in  the  world,  save  for  his  parent,  and  now 
worked  under  one  of  the  Duchy  Moormen — Mr.  Gregory 
Twigg — in  the  Eastern  Quarter  of  the  Forest. 

The  cot  of  Teign  Head  at^midmost  Moor  was  his  home, 
and  there  he  dwelt,  alone  save  for  the  company  of  his 
underling,  Ned  Sleep.  But  Henry  had  sociable  instincts. 
He  knew  the  folk  of  Postbridge,  and  thither  he  rode  twice 
or  thrice  weekly.  On  Simday  he  never  failed  to  attend 
at  the  whitewashed  meeting-house  of  the  Little  Baptists. 
He  was  young  in  heart,  very  ignorant  of  life,  and  ardent 
under  a  reticent  exterior.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Unity,  and  hoped  that  he  might  be  able  to  marry  her 
after  two  years.  For  the  present  they  had  agreed  to  keep 
their  betrothal  a  secret ;  but  it  was  an  open  secret  in  more 
directions  than  one.  Henry  generally  sat  with  the  people 
from  Stannon  at  Sunday  service,  and  shared  Unity's 
hymn-book. 

In  the  light  of  his  love  the  forms  of  religion  had  taken 
on  more  colour  for  him;  and  with  his  betrothed  beside 
him  he  felt  exalted  in  the  act  of  praise. 

Now  broke  a  storm  that  was  to  test  the  strength  of 
this  youth  and  prove  whether  the  roots  of  his  faith  were 
nourished  on  any  enduring  stufit;  or  but  loosely  twined 
through  conventional  traditions  imparted  in  childhood. 
Henry  had  promised  his  father  to  remain  a  steady  chapel 
member;  and  he  had  found  the  promise  easy  enough  to 
keep.  He  was  a  methodical  man  and  fell  naturally  into 
a  regular  mode  of  living.  Thus  life  had  so  far  hidden 
the  realities  of  himself  from  him. 

He  dismounted,  kissed  Unity,  held  her  with  one  hand 
and  stroked  her  cheek  with  the  other.  These  endearments 


26  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

appeared  indecent  to  her  spirit  at  that  moment ;  but  the 
indecency  lay  in  her  own  heart,  not  his  actions. 

She  separated  herself  from  him  and  took  a  plunge  into 
the  facts. 

' '  Did  you  see  Philip  Ouldsbroom  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"No— what  of  him?" 

"He  left  me  twenty  minutes  ago.  Like  a  whirlwind 
the  man  came,  and  went.  He's  just  asked  me  to  be  his 
wife,  Henry." 

"There!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  comes  of  keeping 
secrets.  I  felt,  somehow,  'twould  have  been  better  to  let 
everybody  know  the  truth  when  we  were  tokened. ' ' 

"No, ' '  she  answered.  ' '  'Twas  I  felt  that  I  wanted  it  to 
be  kept  quiet,  till  we  could  get  a  little  nearer  to  mar- 
riage. ' ' 

"Be  it  as  'twill,  'tis  no  secret  really,"  he  declared. 
"Everybody  knows  it  well  enough — everybody  but  that 
great  rattle-pate.  He  chatters  so  that  he's  got  no  time 
to  listen ;  and  so  he 's  gone  without  this  bit  of  news.  He 
didn't  like  taking  'No'  for  answer,  I'll  warrant." 

She  spoke,  then  set  her  teeth  for  the  battle. 

"As  to  that,  Henry,  the  man  didn't  get  'No'  for 
answer. ' ' 

' '  What  d  'you  mean  ?  "  he  asked  in  blank  astonishment. 

"Be  reasonable.  Try  to  look  at  it  all  round — all  round. 
A  surprise  like  this — I  'm  a  woman,  not  an  angel. ' ' 

He  stared  at  her,  and  she  did  not  drop  her  eyes. 

' '  You  mean 1    You  can 't — you  can 't,  Unity !    That 

man — all  top  and  no  root — a  blusterous,  silly  soul  born 
with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth — never  known  to  work — 
never  known  to  pray — never  known  to  think.  And  your 
word — your  solemn  word — given  to  me.  Oh,  Unity,  what 
are  you  saying?" 

"Look  at  my  side  and  understand.  I  love  you  and  I 
always  shall;  but  'tis  no  good  thinking  that  a  farm  of 
my  own  and  such  great  advantages  as  he  offers  to  me,  are 
nought.  'Twould  be  selfishness  to  stand  between  me  and 
them." 

' '  '  Selfishness ! '  '  Selfishness '  betwixt  me  and  you ! 
You've  promised.  Unity." 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  27 

"And  because  I've  promised,  I  didn't  say  'Yes*  to  the 
man.  I  love  you — mind  that.  "Whatever  betide  I  always 
shall.    But  I  want  you  to  let  me  off  marrying  you." 

"You  barefaced  wretch!"  he  cried  out.  "You  can 
look  me  cool  and  calm  in  the  face  and  say  that  ? ' ' 

' '  That  I  can.  Truth 's  truth,  ugly  as  it  may  look  to  you. 
I  swear  afore  God  this  minute  that  I  care  for  you.  All 
the  same,  I  want  to  marry  Philip  Ouldsbroom.  That's 
how  'tis,  and  I  dare  say  'tis  terrible  strange;  but  it's 
true." 

Henry  walked  from  her  and  took  a  turn  up  and  down 
the  sheepfold  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  his  eyes  on 
the  earth.  She  sat  and  watched  him.  She  had  spoken 
truth  as  it  appeared  to  her  at  that  moment.  She  had 
weighed  the  aspects  of  Birdwood  on  the  one  side  and 
Hartland  on  the  other.  There  lay  the  choice:  between 
a  man  and  a  farm,  not  between  one  man  and  another. 
The  slight  passion  in  her  went  out  to  the  shepherd;  the 
foresight  in  her  yearned  for  Hartland  and  comfort  and 
power.  Philip  Ouldsbroom  himself  did  not  much  affect 
the  argument. 

Birdwood  came  slowly  back  to  her.  He  had  grown 
calm.    He  even  smiled. 

"I'm  sorry  I  used  coarse  words,"  he  said.  "After  all 
that  we  've  been  to  each  other,  'tis  a  pity  to  have  done  it. 
Even  such  a  clever  girl  as  my  Unity  can  get  bewitched, 
it  seems.  And  who  can't  when  money's  the  matter? 
Of  course  'twas  a  natural  thing.  To  have  Hartland  flung 
in  your  lap — a  startler.  But  I  know  you  better  than  you 
know  yourself.  Yes,  I  do.  Unity.  Cool  down,  and  you  '11 
find  that  the  farm  will  soon  look  very  small  against  the 
love  we  have  got  for  each  other." 

"No,"  she  said  stubbornly.  "  'Tis  not  a  bit  of  good 
talking  like  that,  Henry,  and  I  won't  leave  it  there.  I 
want  you  to  let  me  be  free.  I  must  be  free.  I'm  in 
earnest,  and  I'm  cruel  cool.  Call  me  all  the  names  you 
can  lay  your  tongue  to.  I  wish  you  would.  I  ask  you  to 
free  me  once  for  all. ' ' 

"And  you'll  blush  to  think  you've  asked  such  a  thing, 
when  night  comes  and  you  go  on  your  knees. ' ' 


28  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"I  blush  to  think  it  now,"  she  said.  "But  I  don't  go 
back  on  it.    I  shan't  change." 

Silence  fell  for  a  moment  between  them.  Then  he 
spoke  again. 

"I  won't  release  you.  Because  you're  mad — that's  no 
reason  why  I  should  be.  We're  to  be  wed  in  the  sight  of 
God.  I've  promised,  and  I  won't  change.  You  don't 
know  what  you're  doing  or  dreaming  about.  I'll  go — to 
Ouldsbroom — this  moment. ' ' 

"You'll  be  too  late.    He's  riding  to  Tavistock." 

"I  shall  catch  him  if  I  gallop  for  it." 

Then  he  mounted  and  turned  to  his  dogs. 

"Bide  there — watch!"  he  shouted  to  them,  and  they 
obeyed. 

Without  speaking  to  Unity  again  he  trotted  off,  and 
such  was  his  speed  that  he  reached  Ouldsbroom 's  home 
but  a  few  moments  after  the  master  had  arrived. 

Hartland's  ancient  fabric  stood  with  white  front  and 
roof  of  thatch  among  the  high-climbing  hills  by  Dart.  A 
squat  chimney  rose  at  each  end,  and  the  thatch  was 
drawn  down  over  the  deep  porch.  The  small  windows 
glimmered  from  heavy  embrasures;  the  farmyard  ex- 
tended before  the  door;  and  at  the  entrance  was  a  thick, 
clean  mat  of  red  fern.  From  within  came  the  chirrup  of 
chickens  that  had  run  through  the  opeway  and  were 
pecking  up  crumbs  on  the  blue  stone  floor  of  the  kitchen. 
A  few  garden  plants — ribes  and  a  wind- worn  lilac — made 
shift  to  live  under  the  windows  of  Hartland,  and  the  beds 
that  contained  them  were  separated  from  the  rough  pave- 
ment of  the  yard  by  a  wall.  Behind  the  homestead  sloped 
a  furze-clad  hill  to  granite  peaks  and  ledges,  while  be- 
neath twinkled  Dart,  winding  through  Postbridge  and 
onward  under  Lakehead  Hill. 

Ouldsbroom  heard  the  shepherd  arrive  and,  as  Henry 
dismounted,  came  out  to  meet  him.  He  carried  a  hunk  of 
bread-and-cheese  in  his  hand,  and  his  mouth  was  full. 

' '  The  very  man  I  wanted  to  see, ' '  he  declared.  ' '  Come 
in  and  have  a  drop  of  beer." 

Birdwood  refused,  nor  did  he  take  the  hand  offered  to 
him. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  29 

"I've  just  left  my  sweetheart,  Unity  Crymes, "  he 
answered. 

' '  Have  you  ?  So  much  the  better !  "Well,  'tis  in  a  nut- 
shell— a  free  world  and  I  mean  to  marry  her. ' ' 

"You  don't  see  what  you're  saying,  Ouldsbroom. 
Can't  you  understand  English ?    "We 're  tokened. ' ' 

"Then  let's  come  to  it  hammer  and  tongs!  'Tokening' 
— what's  that?  Ban't  mind  of  man  or  woman  free  to 
change?  Marriage  is  different.  I'm  honest  as  any  man, 
and  marriage  is  marriage.  But  'tokening' — 'tis  no  more 
than  a  word.  To-morrow  I'll  be  tokened  to  her — ^yes,  by 
God !  I  will.  The  battle 's  to  the  strong,  Henry.  I  'm  no 
enemy  to  you  or  another;  but  I  want  that  woman,  and 
I'll  have  her  if  fighting  can  get  her." 

"You  ought  to  have  come  to  it  sooner.  Too  late 
now. ' ' 

"Don't  you  say  that.  'Tis  never  too  late  this  side  'o 
marriage.  When  you're  at  your  fighting  best,  do  your 
fighting  best  and  gather  to  you  all  you  can  out  of  the 
world  with  both  hands.  That's  my  motto.  When  we  go 
down  and  get  old,  then  others  will  come  along  and  take 
from  us  in  their  turn,  like  enough.  But  now's  my  time. 
I  'm  strong ;  and  I  'm  up  top  for  the  minute ;  and  I  want 
that  woman ;  and  I  'm  going  to  get  her — fair  fighting  and 
all  above  board. ' ' 

"You  call  it  fair!" 

' '  Yes,  I  do  then.  And  where 's  your  fairness  in  trying 
to  keep  her  away  if  she  likes  me  best?" 

"Yow/  She's  just  this  moment  told  me  she  loves  me. 
Told  me  since  she  saw  you. ' ' 

"  I  '11  not  hear  that, ' '  declared  Philip.  ' '  The  news  have 
come  on  her  a  trifle  sudden.  I  don't  ax  her  to  do  what's 
not  possible.  I'm  a  reasonable  creature.  She's  larned 
in  secret  to  be  fond  of  you.  Well,  now  she'll  larn  openly 
to  be  fond  of  me.  As  a  man  I'm  so  good  as  you,  though 
no  chapel  member,  and  I  'm  a  long  sight  better  than  you 
as  a  husband,  because  I  've  more  to  offer  than  you.  ]\Iind 
this :  there's  nothing  against  you.  I  like  you  well  enough 
and  your  master — that  peacock,  Gregory  Twigg — can 
testify  that  I  do.    But,  in  a  word,  we've  run  on  to  the 


30  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

same  hare,  and  I  shall  bring  her  down  and  win  the  course 
as  sure  as  death. ' ' 

"Don't  you  see  the  right  and  wrong  side  of  using  your 
riches  against  a  poor  man  to  steal  the  only  treasure  in  the 
world  he 's  managed  to  get  ? ' ' 

"Eight  or  wrong  don't  come  in.  I'm  hunger-starved 
for  a  woman — for  that  woman,  and  only  that  woman. 
I'm  like  a  lion  I  seed  in  the  beast  show  to  Plymouth — • 
running  up  and  down  dribbling  at  the  mouth  because  he 
knowed  the  hour  for  his  food  was  come.  What's  right 
and  wrong  to  the  himgry  and  thirsty  ?  They  make  their 
own.  They  must  drink  and  eat  at  any  cost,  and  you  can 
talk  of  how  they  came  by  their  victuals  after.  I  don't 
care  a  curse  about  right  and  wrong — dirty  little  silly 
words,  both  of  'em.  My  right  is  to  marry  Unity  Crymes, 
and  I'm  going  to  do  it." 

"And  I  say  you  shall  not!" 

"That's  better!  Now  we're  on  solid  ground.  I  tell 
you  again  that  I've  nought  against  you,  more  than  the 
wheel  have  against  the  stone  it  rolls  over.  But  don 't  come 
in  the  way.  Your  servant,  Birdwood — your  servant  in 
everything  but  that ;  but  I  '11  fight  a  thousand  men  your 
size  for  her; — fight  'em  and  beat  'em  all.  So  now  you 
know. ' ' 

"You  couldn't  if  she  was  against  you." 

"She's  not  against  me.  I  defy  her  to  be  against  me. 
And  if  she's  my  side — that  ends  it." 

' '  She 's  got  a  soul  and  knows  right  from  wrong,  if  you 
don't." 

"Right  and  wrong  won't  help  you — preaching  won't 
help  you — no  more  than  it  ever  helped  anybody  when 
they  was  after  a  female.  The  thing's  got  to  be."  He 
moved  toward  his  stable,  and  Birdwood  followed  him. 

"This  won't  come  to  good,  Ouldsbroom.  I  urge  you  to 
think  again.  Don't  influence  a  young  girl  by  dangling 
your  home  and  your  money  afore  her  eyes.  Think  of 
t'other  side.  Even  if  she's  weak  enough  to  fling  over 
justice  and  truth  to  her  word  for  what  you  can  offer — 
don't  you  see — don't  you  see  you'll  never  be  happy  on 
such  terms  ? ' ' 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  31 

"Hold  off  psalm-smiting,  I  tell  you!  I've  got  no  use 
for  it.  Comfort  yourself,  if  you  please,  by  cursing  money 
and  the  power  of  it.  'Tis  good  enough  for  me ;  and  when 
you  come  to  have  two  hundred  pound  a  year  like  me, 
you  '11  tell  different.  I  'm  going  to  Tavistock  now,  to  buy 
the  woman  a  ring  for  her  wedding  finger. ' ' 

"You'll  mourn  this  day's  work  to  your  dying  hour. 
Stamp  and  bluster  as  you  will,  you  must  mourn  it;  and 
you  know  you  must.  Laugh  at  right  and  wrong — call 
'em  dirty  little  words.  Perhaps  they  are.  But  wait  and 
see  what's  bred  out  of  'em.  Suffering  and  torture  ban't 
dirty  little  Avords,  anyway;  and  that  you'll  live  to  know 
so  sure  as  you  take  that  woman  from  her  right  and  lawful 
man.  Torture — torture — that's  what  you're  breeding  for 
yourself,  and  the  last  sting  of  it  will  be  to  know  that  you 
deserved  it  all. ' ' 

Ouldsbroom  had  brought  a  big  horse  out  of  the  stable, 
and  now  he  saddled  it  and  laughed  at  the  other 's  words. 

"You'm  thrown  away  at  Teign  Head,  Henry.  You 
ought  to  have  followed  your  father  and  gone  preaching. 
Words  come  out  of  you  like  feathers  off  a  goose.  But  I  '11 
take  all  the  future  can  do,  very  well  content  for  the  good 
of  the  present.  Only  a  fool's  'feared  of  the  future.  'Tis 
a  hollow  turnip  with  a  light  in  it  to  fright  childer.  The 
future  be  the  present  before  it  gets  to  us;  and  what 
strong  man  ban 't  ever  ready  for  the  passing  hour  ?  I  'm 
bursting  with  life,  I  tell  you — such  a  fullness  of  it  as  you, 
though  you're  boy  to  my  man,  very  likely  will  never 
know.  Enough  said.  I 'm  sorry  to  the  heart  that  I  come 
between  you  and  that  girl.  'Tis  damned  bad  luck  for 
you ;  but  I  can 't  help  it — no  more  than  the  cart  can  help 
running  over  the  mouse  in  the  dark.    None 's  to  blame. ' ' 

"You're  a  liar,  and  you  know  you're  a  liar,"  answered 
the  other.  He  spoke  quietly  and  it  was  Philip,  not  the 
wronged  man,  who  first  showed  anger  in  this  conver- 
sation. 

"Steady  there!  No  man  calls  me  liar  to  my  face, 
young  chap.  You're  the  liar  to  say  it.  You  snivelling 
chapel  members  ban't  the  only  honest  people  in  the 
world.    I  warn  you.    And  now  I  'm  off.    And  fight  fair — 


32  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

mind  that.  Fight  fair,  or  you'll  find  me  an  ugly  cus- 
tomer. ' ' 

He  prepared  to  start;  entered  his  house,  changed  his 
coat,  put  on  a  collar  and  turned  his  purse  out  of  a  locked 
desk  at  a  corner  of  the  kitchen. 

' '  Shall  be  back  afore  supper, ' '  he  said  to  an  old  woman 
who  was  busy  within ;  and  then  he  took  a  round  hat  from 
a  peg  in  the  hall  and  went  back  to  his  horse. 

Henry  Birdwood  had  gone,  and  with  his  departure  the 
elder  become  instantly  amiable. 

''Poor  old  Henry.  Us  must  hit  on  something  good  to 
take  the  sting  out  of  this  for  the  man, ' '  he  thought.  And 
not  a  small  part  of  his  reflections  upon  the  ride  to  Tavi- 
stock centred  in  the  shepherd  and  how  best  to  improve  his 
lot.  But  this  he  did  not  do  from  feeble-minded  desire  to 
meet  his  conscience  in  the  way  and  compound  therewith. 
He  felt  no  more  uneasiness  than  the  victorious  hart  feels 
when  a  defeated  rival  falls  or  flies. 

As  for  the  younger  man,  he  returned  dazed  and  bewil- 
dered to  his  flock.  As  yet  he  failed  to  grasp  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  last  hour.  Experience  had  never  shown  him 
any  such  nature  as  this — riding,  as  it  seemed,  on  a  whirl- 
wind above  right  and  justice.  For  the  moment  Birdwood 
suffered  neither  rage  nor  grief,  but  only  amazement. 


CHAPTER  V 

On  the  evening  of  this  day  Barbara  Hext  sat  alone  in  her 
kitchen.  The  hour  was  late ;  the  girl  who  worked  for  her 
had  gone  home ;  her  sole  companion  was  the  liver-coloured 
spaniel  called  '  Sarah. ' 

Miss  Hext  was  fallen  into  a  reverie — an  accident  rare 
in  her  life.  Things  had  happened  in  the  morning  to 
throw  her  back  upon  the  past.  A  man  in  the  storm 
of  love  had  done  it;  and  when  her  private  hours  were 
come,  instead  of  planning  purchases  for  the  shop,  consult- 
ing dealers'  catalogues,  or  mending  clothes,  she  read  old 
letters. 

None  knew  certainly  concerning  her  youth  save  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  dead  and  gone  and  godless 
water-bailiff.  She  had  lived  in  London  with  a  well-born 
man  for  three  years;  then  he  married,  and  she  left  him 
and  returned  to  the  Moor.  Lovers  came — some  for  her 
little  fortune  and  some  for  herself.  And  once  she  loved 
and  promised  to  marry.  But  when  she  told  him  the  truth 
in  the  hour  that  she  accepted  him,  he  made  it  a  condition 
that  she  should  give  away  her  money  to  the  last  farth- 
ing. She  declined  to  do  so;  the  match  was  broken  off, 
and  Barbara,  who  had  no  mind  to  the  other  suitors,  dis- 
appeared again. 

For  ten  years  she  worked  in  London  as  forewoman  in  a 
department  of  a  large  general  store.  She  had  no  more 
lovers,  and  became  studious  and  contemplative.  Then,  on 
the  edge  of  middle  age,  she  returned  to  the  home  of  her 
childhood  and  set  up  her  little  shop  there.  The  folk 
believed  that  she  was  rich,  and  they  knew  that  she  was 
kind.  But  her  goodness  had  always  been  a  matter  of 
debate.    None  understood  her ;  Nonconformists  and  those 

33  3 


34  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

of  the  Establishment  alike  feared  her,  and  feared  for  her. 
Herself  she  was  fearless  and  was  reported  to  believe  in 
nothing. 

Barbara  read  the  letters,  and  emotion  shone  in  her 
eyes.  She  spoke  aloud  in  a  gentle,  murmuring  voice  that 
none  at  Postbridge  had  heard. 

"No  lovers  like  that  now,"  she  said.  "No  men  like 
that  now  neither.  How  wise  he  was,  and  how  straight 
with  me !  Never  hid  the  truth — never  told  me  a  lie.  '  Take 
me  or  leave  me, '  was  his  word.  '  Marry  you  I  can 't ;  love 
you  I  will,  and  make  your  life  wiser  and  happier  I  will. ' 
'Cold-blooded,'  my  old  father  called  it.  What  then? 
Better  be  cold  afore  than  after.  I  got  more  than  I  gave — 
.sense  and  knowledge,  and  the  power  to  look  all  round 
things,  and  patience  with  the  fools.  You  can  lie  down 
again,  'Sarah.'  You've  heard  all  this  afore — and  only 
you. ' ' 

The  dog  at  sound  of  her  voice  had  risen  and,  'with 
reverential  eyes  and  pendant  paws,'  sat  up  beside  Bar- 
bara's feet.  Miss  Hext  had  taught  the  creature  thus  to 
attend  when  she  spoke  aloud,  and  its  semblance  of  under- 
standing was  startling  and  entertaining  to  chance  specta- 
tors. As  the  postmistress  sometimes  said,  fifty  years 
earlier  such  an  accomplishment  would  have  earned  her 
the  horse-pond  and  her  dog  the  halter — for  a  pair  of 
witches. 

She  tied  up  the  letters  and  put  them  away;  then  she 
went  into  the  shop  and  fetched  herself  a  dozen  raisins  and 
a  biscuit.  Her  supper  done,  she  was  about  to  retire  and 
leave  'Sarah'  as  usual  to  run  free  in  the  premises,  when 
there  came  the  sudden  thunder  of  a  knock  at  the  shop 
door. 

Miss  Hext  opened  it  to  find  a  man  of  rather  less  than 
middle  height  before  her.  His  hat  was  off,  and  he  was 
mopping  his  head. 

"Why,  Mr.  Twigg!"  she  cried. 

"Yes ;  no  wonder  you're  a  bit  surprised  to  see  one  that 
goes  by  clockwork  down  here  at  this  hour.  Ten  'tis — in 
fact,  a  bit  after  ten." 

"Lucky  I  wasn't  to  bed." 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  35 

"Very;  and  if  you  had  been,  I  should  have  roused  you 
up.  I  want  some  linseed  for  a  poultice.  My  daughter 
Millicent — or  Millicent  Mary,  as  we  call  her — is  took  ill. ' ' 

"Poor  little  maid!    You're  sure  linseed  is  right?" 

''Have  no  fear  on  that  score,"  answered  Mr.  Twigg. 
' '  I  'm  a  scholar,  as  you  know,  and  a  reader  and  a  thinker 
also.  The  '  Mother 's  Guide '  is  perfectly  clear.  In  a  word, 
Millicent  Mary  has  got  the  croup.  My  wife 's  working  at 
her ;  but  a  linseed  poultice  I  've  ordered,  and  as  by  chance 
all  my  staff's  away  for  the  minute,  I  had  to  come  and 
fetch  it  myself." 

Gregory  Twigg  was  inclined  to  be  stout.  He  had  a 
pugnacious  nose,  an  assertive  manner,  and  a  ridiculous 
conceit  of  himself.  He  had  gathered  together  some  long 
words  from  the  newspapers  and  enjoyed  to  use  them.  He 
patronised  all  men,  and  some  he  angered  and  some  he 
entertained.  Vanity  was  the  mainspring  of  Mr.  Twigg; 
his  religion,  his  possessions,  his  importance,  his  wife,  his 
children,  and  his  mental  endowments  were  the  subjects  on 
which  he  preferred  to  discourse.  He  conducted  a  small 
public-house  and  kept  three  horses.  He  farmed  the  East 
Quarter  of  the  Moor  from  the  Duchy,  and  employed  upon 
it  a  few  humble  men.  He  had  come  to  regard  himself 
as  a  sort  of  adjunct  of  the  overlord,  and  believed  that 
not  a  little  of  the  prosperity  of  Dartmoor  depended  upon 
him.  He  gave  advice  generously,  but  took  none.  He 
resented  criticism,  and  a  joke  against  himself  was  the 
highest  offence  in  his  eyes.  He  pitied  the  people  and  did 
not  regard  himself  as  one  of  them.  His  inn,  'The  "War- 
ren House,'  a  mile  from  Postbridge,  was  not  very  pros- 
perous, but  he  set  the  fact  down  to  his  own  superior  parts 
and  high  level  of  conversation.  Money  was  very  scarce 
with  him,  but  he  believed  that  none  knew  the  fact.  His 
ostler,  however,  had  made  no  secret  of  delayed  settle- 
ments, and  few  were  deceived  by  Gregory 's  affectation  of 
prosperity. 

He  was  a  Nonconformist,  and  a  tower  of  strength  in 
the  local  circle  of  the  Little  Baptists. 

Miss  Hext  quickly  produced  the  linseed,  but  she  ad- 
vised other  treatment  also. 


36  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

' '  Have  no  fear, ' '  he  answered.  ' '  As  the  father  of  four 
I  am  always  prepared.  And  don't  hesitate  to  send  in 
your  account,  Miss  Hext.  I  never  like  bills  to  run. 
'Ready  money'  is  my  motto,  and  you'll  not  find  a 
better." 

' '  My  little  bill  went  to  you  last  month. ' ' 

"You  surprise  me,"  he  said.  "But  in  financial  opera- 
tions on  the  scale — on  my  scale — a  trifle  will  often  get 
overlooked. ' ' 

"There's  no  hurry." 

"Don't  say  that.  The  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire. 
Why  should  you  be  kept  waiting?  Because  you  don't  go 
to  church  or  chapel — eh  ?  No,  no ;  I  'm  not  that  sort.  We 
must  each  make  our  peace  with  God  in  our  own  hearts 
—eh?" 

"Better  be  gone,"  she  said,  "or  you'll  have  to  make 
your  peace  with  Mrs.  Twigg. ' ' 

"I  never  hurry.    It  shortens  life." 

"But  your  child's  life." 

"You're  wrong  there,"  he  answered.  "I  can't  leave 
you  under  that  mistaken  idea.  There  is  not  a  shadow  of 
danger.  Had  I  seen  the  symptoms  were  dangerous, 
I  should  have  brought  out  the  gig.  Hullo!  who  is 
this?" 

A  galloping  horse  sped  over  the  bridge  and  stopped 
beside  them.  It  had  come  fast ;  and  as  it  was  pulled  up 
and  stretched  its  legs  and  put  down  its  head,  the  sweat- 
ing sides  of  it  steamed  in  the  light  from  Miss  Hext's 
open  door. 

"Good-evening!"  cried  the  rider.  "Surprised  you  to- 
gether, have  I !    Here 's  fine  news  for  your  wife,  Greg  I ' ' 

He  shouted  with  laughter,  and  proclaimed  himself  to 
be  Philip  Ouldsbroom. 

Of  all  men  Philip  was  the  one  that  Mr.  Twigg  liked 
least,  so  he  took  a  swift  departure. 

"I  shall  let  it  be  known  how  the  patient  is  to-morrow," 
he  said.  "Good-night;  good-night,  Ouldsbroom.  Try  and 
not  make  loose  jokes  at  your  age.  Your  horse  is  over- 
ridden. It  will  be  ill  to-morrow,  or  I  know  nothing  of 
the  subject." 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  37 

"You  don't!"  replied  the  farmer.  "Horses!  You 
drive  'em  like  a  lady." 

Twigg  departed  into  the  darkness,  and  Ouldsbroom  got 
down. 

"Can't  you  find  nought  better  than  that  pious  pea- 
cock to ?" 

"Be  off!"  she  said.  "And  he's  right  for  once,  and 
you're  wrong.  Have  you  been  trying  to  ride  away  from 
your  stupid  self?  You  oughtn't  to  push  your  horse  like 
that." 

"The  hoss  be  unharmed.  He  knows  my  ways.  He'll 
have  good  payment  for  his  trouble  afore  I  turn  in.  Look 
here,  Barbara — I've  got  it — the  ring."  He  took  a  little 
box  out  of  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  her. 

She  opened  it,  examined  the  ring,  and  gave  it  back  to 
him. 

"You  silly  madman!"  she  said.  "And  so  she  took 
you?" 

"All  but  the  word.  To-morrow  morning  she's  to  say 
'Yes.'  Eight  hours — eight  mortal  hours  more  have  I 
got  to  wait.  At  six  I'll  be  over  at  Stannon,  if  I  can  bide 
that  long.  Now  'tis  ten.  Let  me  come  in  and  have  a  tell 
along  with  you,  Barbara,  to  shorten  the  time." 

' '  Get  home, ' '  she  said,  ' '  and  have  a  tell  with  your  God, 
and  steady  your  mind  a  bit. ' ' 

' '  God — who 's  he  ?  I  didn  't  Imow  you  believed  in  that 
party. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  do.  Everybody  does.  I  larned  that  long  ago. 
Thinking  people  make  their  own  pattern  of  God.  We've 
all  got  one,  even  them  that  pretend  loudest  they  haven't. 
You're  the  sort  I  like,  Philip — a  pet  of  mine,  with  all 
your  stupid  follies;  and  you  know  it  very  well.  But 
never  a  man  stood  in  need  of  a  God  more.  You  take  my 
advice  and  set  about  finding  one. ' ' 

"Wonders  never  cease.  Us  will  have  you  going  to 
church  or  along  with  the  Little  Baptists  next." 

' '  No,  you  won 't.  Their  Gods  are  not  mine.  Jehovah 's 
too  hard  and  Christ's  too  soft  for  me.  Get  home  and 
read  the  Book  of  Job.  Read  it  through,  and  if  it  don't 
send  you  to  sleep,  'twill  do  you  good  mayhap.    That's  my 


38  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Biblebook — the  only  one  I  read.  They  are  live  people  in 
it — all  of  'em,  down  to  that  busy  rascal,  Satan.  You  can 
match  'em  in  Postbridge.  Now  be  off,  and  walk  your 
horse  back. ' ' 

"  I  '11  do  diS  you  say.  'Tis  a  day  of  wonders.  To  think 
of  Barbara  Hext  preaching ! ' ' 

She  laughed,  and  shut  the  door  upon  him,  while  he 
went  off  and  led  his  horse  by  the  bridle  rein. 

Arrived  at  Hartland,  he  tended  the  weary  animal,  then 
went  into  his  house  and  found  his  two  labourers  had  re- 
tired ;  but  the  old  woman  who  looked  to  his  dwelling  was 
waiting  up  for  him.  He  sent  her  to  bed,  supped  heavily, 
then  lighted  his  pipe  and  went  into  the  parlour  for  the 
family  Bible. 

He  read  a  few  chapters  of  Job,  but  comprehended  them 
not.  The  mighty  poem  bored  him  and  made  him  drowsy. 
Soon  after  midnight  he  fell  asleep  and  did  not  wake  until 
four  o'clock,  to  find  kitchen  lamp  and  kitchen  fire  both 
out.  Then  he  lighted  a  candle,  ascended  to  his  room, 
made  a  toilet  there,  and,  at  the  first  glimmer  of  dawn, 
went  out  of  doors. 

He  climbed  Hartland  Tor  and,  hidden  to  windward  of 
them,  watched  a  brace  of  fox  cubs  playing  together. 

"You'll  be  standing  afore  the  puppies  in  a  month,  my 
brave  heroes!"  he  thought.  And  then  he  scared  them, 
laughed  to  see  them  run,  felt  in  his  pocket  to  prove  the 
ring  was  safe,  and  went  his  way  to  Stannon.  Grey  light 
soaked  the  air  and  earth  as  he  reached  Unity's  home  be- 
fore half -past  five  o'clock.  No  life  stirred,  but  he  knew 
the  girl's  bedroom  window.  It  faced  alone  over  the  Moor 
on  the  northern  side  of  the  farmhouse.  Philip  now 
walked  beneath  it  and  flung  stones  at  the  window.  She 
was  sleeping  heavily  after  a  sleepless  night,  and  pres- 
ently, in  his  efforts  to  waken  her,  he  broke  the  glass  with 
a  crash.  A  dog  barked  at  the  sound  and  came  galloping 
from  the  front  of  the  house.  It  knew  Philip,  and  greeted 
him  effusively.  At  the  same  moment  the  white  blind 
above  was  moved  and  Unity's  eyes  appeared.  Oulds- 
broom  kissed  his  hand  to  her  and  she  vanished.  In  ten 
minutes  she  stood  beside  him. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  39 

''Well?  "Well?  Say  it,  for  God's  sake!"  he  burst 
out.    ' '  'Tis  ages  ago  since  I  saw  'e ! " 

"Yes." 

He  shouted  like  a  boy  loosed  from  school,  and  em- 
braced her. 

"I  knew  it!"  he  cried;  "I  knew  it  from  the  first 
moment  I  loved  you.    I  knew  it  in  my  bones ! ' ' 

' '  But  mark  this,  afore  'tis  too  late, ' '  she  said,  pushing 
him  from  her.  "Mark  this,  Philip,  I  know  too  little  of 
you — too  little  by  far.  And  what  do  you  know  of  me? 
Still  less.    Leave  it  open;  I  pray  you  leave  it " 

' '  Stop, ' '  he  interrupted  her.  ' '  Stop  there ;  not  another 
word  will  I  hear  of  that  nonsense.  I  love  you,  and  I'll 
very  soon  larn  you  what  love  is.  Ban't  no  slow-growing, 
patient  thing ;  it  comes  full-grown,  wi '  no  more  patience 
than  the  lightning.  And  so  'twill  be  with  you  afore 
you're  a  month  older.  Don't  I  understand?  Didn't  I 
tell  Birdwood  yesterday  how  'twas?  Yesterday — yester- 
day— I  say  'yesterday';  but  what's  time?  'Tis  a  hun- 
dred years  agone  that  I  sent  the  man  about  his  business. 
Think  no  more  of  him.  Leave  him  to  me.  He  shall  bless 
my  name  afore  I've  done  with  him.  Ban't  the  strongest 
thejustest?" 

"Take  time,  Philip.  Get  to  know  me  better.  I'm  far 
off  what  you  think. ' ' 

"Leave  all  that.  Haven't  I  seen  through  and  through 
you  for  a  month  ?  Here — here 's  your  ring.  That  '11  show 
you !    Does  your  brother  know  ? ' ' 

' '  There 's  no  hurry,  I  keep  telling  you. ' ' 

"Ban't  there,  by  God!  A  man  on  fire's  generally  like 
to  be  in  a  hurry;  and  you'll  be  a  woman  on  fire  afore 
many  hours  are  over  your  head.  Love !  There — but  I  '11 
soon  show  you  what  love  be  like ! ' ' 

He  broke  off  and  shouted  to  Quinton  Crymes,  who  was 
just  passing  into  his  plot  of  cabbage  beside  the  farm. 

"Here — come  here  and  hear  the  news,  boy!  Great 
news,  I  warn  'e ! " 

' ' Hullo ! ' '  cried  the  farmer.  "What 's  fetched  you  over 
so  early?" 

"This  here  minx — who  else  should?     And  she  will 


40  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

be  obeyed,  of  course.  Wants  to  marry  me — will  do  it. 
What  d'you  say  to  that?" 

Crymes  stared. 

' '  Then  what  about  Birdwood  ? ' ' 

"Let  be,"  said  Philip.  "Leave  him  to  me.  He's  out 
of  it  and  never  was  in  it  worth  mentioning.  Can't  a 
woman  make  a  mistake?  A  very  understanding  young 
chap.  Well,  then,  let  him  use  his  understanding  and  larn 
that  the  battle 's  to  the  strong. ' ' 

Crymes  regarded  his  sister  with  suspicion.  Then  his 
slow  mind  moved  and  suspicion  changed  into  respect. 
From  being  nothing,  she  promised  to  become  a  power. 
Gradually  he  found  himself  rejoicing. 

' '  This  is  big  news, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Come  in  and  take  a  bit 
o'  breaksis  along  with  us,  Ouldsbroom. " 

"  So  I  will  then ;  and  let  me  tell  her — let  me  tell  your 
wife.    I  like  to  startle  a  person. ' ' 

"No,"  said  Quinton  firmly.  "She  ban't  in  a  case  to 
be  startled.  Her  babby's  due  in  a  month.  I'll  break  it 
gently. ' ' 

But  the  breakfast  was  not  successful,  because  Gertrude 
Crymes  liked  Birdwood.  She  had  as  frank  a  nature  as 
Philip  himself,  and  roundly  told  him  that  he  was  doing 
wrong.  He  blustered  and  argued,  but  heard  the  other 
side  from  one  who  felt  no  sympathy  with  his  untutored 
spirit.    He  lost  his  temper. 

' '  The  sooner  my  wife  gets  beyond  reach  of  your  frosty 
tongue,  the  better  for  her,"  he  declared,  and  rose  from 
the  table. 

"Be  at  sheepfold  towards  evening.  Unity,"  he  said, 
with  the  air  of  one  commanding. 

Then  he  was  gone,  and  upon  his  departure  a  very  vig- 
orous argument  broke  out  behind  him.  Gertrude  and  her 
husband  took  opposite  sides;  Unity  said  nothing;  Mr. 
Coaker,  who  was  a  bachelor,  entirely  agreed  with  his 
master  that  the  rich  and  prosperous  Ouldsbroom  was  a 
better  match  for  any  woman  than  a  poor  shepherd,  no 
matter  how  high  his  principles  or  good  his  character 
might  be.  Jimmy  Coaker  was  a  cynic  and  spoke  accord- 
ingly. 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  41 

"You've  got  to  reckon  up  Hartland  and  two  hundred 
a  year  and  a  silly  man  against  a  very  proper  young 
chapel-going  chap — and  nought,"  he  said.  "If  you  was 
one  sort  of  woman,  I  should  say,  '  Take  the  Little  Baptist 
and  nothing';  but  being  as  you  are — a  pretty  strong- 
minded  fashion  of  female — I  say,  'Go  for  the  money, 
with  Ouldsbroom  thrown  in. '  He  isn  't  bad — only  weak- 
minded.  If  you're  worth  your  salt,  you  soon  will  have 
him  under  your  thumb,  and  then  you  're  the  better  every 
way,  and  he 's  none  the  worse  for  a  clever  wife  who  'U  help 
to  keep  his  money  in  his  pocket  and  hide  his  folly  from 
the  sight  of  the  neighbours. ' ' 

"You  speak  like  the  sour  old  carmudgeon  you  are," 
retorted  Mrs.  Crymes  hotly.  "Good  powers!  Can  two 
men  think  so  mean  and  small?  Haven't  she  promised 
Henry?  'Tis  horrid  to  know  that  any  girl,  worth  calling 
herself  a  girl,  can  sink  to  such  a  nasty  deed.  Speak ! ' ' 
she  continued,  turning  almost  fiercely  on  her  sister-in- 
law.  "Haven't  you  got  nought  to  say  to  throw  light  on 
this  dark  thing  ? ' ' 

Unity  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  myself,  and  I've  got  nought  to  say,  and  I  care 
nought  what  any  think.  I  see  it  from  my  own  point  of 
view ;  and  I  know  this :  love  of  man  ban 't  the  only  thing 
to  guide  a  woman's  life.  'Tisn't  everything  to  a  woman 
like  me,  any  more  than  it  is  everything  to  most  men.  I 
ban't  going  to  live  or  die  for  anybody  but  myself.  I'm 
very  fond  of  Henry,  and  always  shall  be  fond  of  him, 
because  he's  a  fine  chap,  though  he've  nothing  to  look  to. 
And  Ouldsbroom 's  a  fine  chap;  and  whether  I  love  him 
or  no,  be  his  business,  not  yours.  I  told  him  square  that 
I  knew  nought  about  him,  and  that  us  must  wait  a  bit; 
and  he  shut  my  mouth.  So  I  've  nought  on  my  conscience 
with  him.    And  life's  life,  not  love-making." 

"You  cold-blooded  snake!"  burst  out  the  hot-blooded 
Mrs.  Crymes. 

But  here  her  husband  interposed,  and  the  argument 
waxed  high. 

Gertrude  exhausted  herself,  spoke  of  the  disparity  of 
age ;  the  futility  of  linking  life  with  such  a  man  as  Oulds- 


42  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

broom;  the  wickedness  of  breaking  a  troth;  the  shame 
that  must  attach  to  a  jilt's  family  at  such  a  deed.  Then 
Crymes  denied  all  the  disabilities,  and  his  sister  left  him 
still  arguing  with  his  wife.  Unity  craved  peace  and 
silence.  She  did  her  work  of  washing  up  and  attending 
to  the  poultry;  then  she  explained  to  her  angry  sister- 
in-law  that  she  would  not  be  back  before  night,  and  took 
herself  off  into  the  Moor. 

Until  noon  she  tramped  the  lonely  places,  and  once 
climbed  the  heights  so  that  Teign  Head  cot  under  Manger 
Hill,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  central  waste,  appeared  be- 
neath her  eyes.  Smoke  rose  above  the  dwelling,  and  she 
knew  that  Henry  Birdwood  and  Mr.  Sleep  were  eating 
their  dinner  together.  The  thought  for  some  reason 
served  to  comfort  her,  but  she  did  not  suffer  her  mind 
long  to  dwell  on  Birdwood. 

"I  may  be  a  hard  woman,"  she  said  to  herself;  ''but 
that 's  like  most  of  us ;  and  that  won 't  stop  me  from  being 
a  prosperous  one  anyhow.  'Tis  better  to  be  of  some 
account  than  only  happy  like  a  sheep.  And  why  for 
shouldn't  I  be  happy,  come  a  child  or  two?" 

She  ate  blackberries  in  the  deep  gorge  of  East  Dart, 
and  then,  having  dawdled  through  many  hours,  set  out 
for  the  sheepfold. 

Philip  was  there  before  her.  He  kissed  her  and  ca- 
ressed her  like  a  lover;  then  he  made  her  sit  on  his  lap. 

"Where  d'you  think  I  went  to  when  I  left  Stannon 
this  morning?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"To  parson.  Banns  be  going  up  Sunday.  Don't  you 
break  away!  Too  late  now.  Us '11  be  married  in  the 
Church.  Little  did  I  think  when  I  was  there  and  heard 
'em  read  the  burial  service  over  faither  that  next  time 
I  was  in  their  shop  'twould  be  to  hear  'em  tell  the  mar- 
riage service  over  me !  But  so  'tis.  I  won 't  be  married 
by  they  Little  Baptists.  I  doubt  if  they  can  do  it  ac- 
cording to  law. ' ' 

' '  Of  course  they  can. ' ' 

"Well,  I'm  against  'em.  Your  parson,  with  his  game 
leg  and  his  right-hand  man,  that  puffed-out  frog,  Gregory 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  43 

Twigg No;  give  me  the  Church  for  my  job.     You 

don 't  care  ? ' ' 

"It's  all  one  to  me." 

"To-morrow  Hartland  will  be  ready  for  you  to  have 
a  look  round.  I've  set  my  old  woman  and  Tommy 
Webber  to  work  with  soap  and  water,  and  I  be  going  to 
make  a  bonfire  of  my  father's  clothes  and  his  old  bed 
gnd  his  old  dog-eared  chair.  I  couldn't  sell  'em — haven't 
got  the  heart  to — and  I  can 't  use  them,  so  I  '11  burn  'em. 
You  come  after  noon  to-morrow  and  I'll  show  you  over 
the  place.  And  I  told  parson  that  the  first  week  in 
October  would  be  the  time. ' ' 

She  pleaded  for  a  little  delay,  but  he  would  none  of  it. 

' '  'Tis  too  sudden — who  could  face  such  a  thing  staring 
at  one,  with  less  than  five  weeks  to  go  ? " 

' '  Five  weeks,  you  call  it.  'Twill  be  fifty  years  to  me ; 
and  you  knew  this  morning,  when  you  looked  at  your 
ring " 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  pocket. 

* '  There ! ' '  she  cried ;  "  in  all  the  storm  and  trouble  of 
it,  I've  never  even  oped  the  packet." 

"Do  so  then — 'twill  show  you  a  bit  more  of  my  ways 
than  you  know,  seemingly. ' ' 

She  opened  the  box  and  found  a  wedding-ring. 

"That's  the  sort  I  am,"  he  said.  "Be  life  so  long 
that  a  month  more  or  less  don't  count  in  it?  Let's  live 
together  every  moment  we  can,  and  not  throw  away  a 
chance,  nor  yet  an  hour.  The  people  that  wait,  when 
they  ban't  bound  to  wait,  don't  know  what  love  means. 
I  ain't  got  no  use  for  betrothals  and  tokenings,  and  all 
that.  I  want  you,  and  I  will  have  you  inside  five  weeks 
from  to-day. ' ' 

He  rattled  on  in  this  strain ;  he  laid  the  future  before 
her  painted  in  his  own  sanguine  colours.  She  spoke  a 
little  at  first,  but  he  overbore  her  with  his  noise  and 
exuberance,  so  that  presently  she  simply  sat  on  his  lap, 
stared  before  her,  and  listened.  Now  and  then  he  took 
breath  and  kissed  her. 

Two  hours  passed  very  swiftly;  then  he  was  reminded 
of  another  labour  designed  for  that  day. 


44  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

"I'm  going  to  see  Henry  Birdwood  to-night,"  he  said. 
"A  fine  chap  is  Birdwood,  and  I'll  be  a  friend  to  him  if 
he'll  let  me.  Yesterday,  afore  you  took  me,  I  was  a 
bit  touchy  in  temper.  And  who  shall  blame  me?  But 
now  'tis  all  done,  I  can  breathe  again  and  look  round 
at  the  world  in  general.  You  know  him  better  than  me. 
What  does  he  want  in  life?  What's  the  ruling  passion 
of  the  man?" 

"I  was." 

"You,  and  the  moon,  and  a  few  other  things,  be  out 
of  reach  for  him.  We  '11  leave  that  and  talk  about  what 's 
possible.  He's  a  bit  pious,  I'm  told,  along  of  having  a 
preacher  for  parent.  Well,  that  sort  are  dull;  but  he's 
young  yet,  and  may  take  life  more  cheerful  later  on. 
We  '11  see.  Anyway,  I  might  find  him  better  money  than 
he  gets  from  Gregory  Twigg. ' ' 

"You  don't  surely  mean ?" 

"To  offer  him  a  job?  Why  not?  He's  no  fool.  Not 
just  now,  of  course — plenty  of  time  when  he's  got  used 
to  things  and  we're  married  and  settled." 

"He'll  never  take  anything  from  your  hand." 

"Won't  he?  Then  let  him  go  to  hell  for  all  I  care, 
if  he's  that  sort.  But  perhaps  he  ban't.  Anyway,  I'm 
going  up  to  see  him  to-night  and  ax  his  pardon  if  I  said 
anything  to  hurt  him  an  hour  after  'twas  spoken.  And 
I'll  bid  him  to  the  wedding  presently." 

He  put  the  wedding-ring  on  and  found  it  fitted  well. 
She  took  it  off,  however,  immediately. 

"  'Tis  unlucky,"  she  said. 

Whereupon  he  laughed. 

' '  We  make  our  own  luck  by  the  sweat  of  our  brow  most 
times, ' '  he  answered.  ' '  Ban 't  I  in  luck  this  minute,  and 
won't  the  world  know  it  Sunday  when  the  banns  be 
called?" 

"No,"  she  replied.  "Once  for  all,  don't  fool  yourself 
to  think  that.  My  brother's  wife  have  a  tongue  in  her 
head,  and  very  strong  opinions  about  what  I'm  doing. 
As  like  as  not,  the  rest  of  Postbridge  will  be  of  the  same 
mind ;  so  you  may  count  upon  sour  looks  for  me,  if  not 
for  yourself." 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  45 

He  frowned. 

' '  Them  as  look  sourly  at  you  over  this  job  shall  mighty 
soon  look  sour  on  their  own  account, ' '  he  declared.  "  I  'm 
not  the  quarrelsome  sort,  and  will  go  a  mile  round  to 
avoid  a  row  any  day  of  the  week ;  but  this  be  different. 
There'll  soon  be  bloody  heads  about  if  any  man  says 
a  word  against  you  to  me ;  and  you  can  tell  your  sister- 
in-law  that  same.  Let  her  mind  her  own  business  and 
bring  a  brave  babby  into  the  world.    And  now  I  'm  off ! " 

He  was  soon  gone,  and  she  watched  him  strike  away 
along  the  slope  of  the  hill,  breast  it,  and  disappear  be- 
yond. She  thought  of  what  would  happen  between 
Henry  and  Philip;  and  then  she  took  off  the  wedding- 
ring  and  dreamed  of  being  a  married  woman. 

A  sort  of  savage  satisfaction  got  hold  upon  her.  For 
the  first  time  she  felt  a  sudden,  fiery  regard  for  this  head- 
long man  who  was  hastening  her  destiny  at  such  a  violent 
pace.  She  admired  him  for  it.  There  was  something  big 
about  him.  He  was  a  ship  worth  steering.  She  pictured 
herself  cutting  a  brave  figure  at  the  helm  of  him. 

Day  sank  into  night  without  one  cloud.  After  hours 
of  hurrying  vapour  and  high  wind,  the  bustle  and  busi- 
ness of  the  sky  was  over,  and  a  great,  burning  zone  of 
orange-red  now  mantled  above  the  vanished  sun.  It 
faded  upward,  through  paler  orange,  by  passages  of 
waning  splendour  to  the  dark  blue  of  the  zenith;  it 
deepened  downward  to  pure  mauve  stretched  in  a  veil 
above  the  purple  of  earth.  Ghostly  upon  this  light,  yet 
trembling  into  gold  as  the  sunset  faded  from  about  her^ 
there  hung  the  crescent  of  the  young,  eusped  moon. 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  folk  streamed  from  their  little  meeting-house  on  a 
Sunday  evening  of  stars.  Autumn  had  already  touched 
a  grove  that  marks  the  year  at  Postbridge  and  signals  the 
first  pinch  of  early  frosts  when  September  comes;  but 
this  night  was  mild  and  still.  A  gentle  haze  hung  in  the 
air,  and  through  the  windows  of  the  chapel,  sheaves  of 
light  from  oil  lamps  within  struck  the  atmosphere  and 
lit  it  to  mellow  radiance. 

The  ritual  of  the  Little  Baptists  was  severe,  and  orna- 
ment they  eschewed.  A  rostrum  at  one  end  of  the  hall 
and  a  large  map  of  Palestine  in  a  black  frame  at  the 
other,  were  the  sole  objects  that  arrested  attention.  The 
meeting-house  was  a  converted  barn,  the  gift  of  a  pious 
Little  Baptist  in  the  past.  Its  lines  were  lofty  and 
simple ;  the  great  beams  of  the  roof  stretched  across  a 
whitewashed  ceiling,  and  the  glass  windows,  shaded  by 
red  blinds,  opened  square  and  plain  in  the  whitewashed 
walls. 

Quinton  Crymes  and  his  wife  were  among  the  first  to 
einerge  from  service,  and  not  far  behind  them  there 
followed  Ned  Sleep  of  Teign  Head.  They  stopped  him 
with  a  question.  The  evening  had  been  marked  by  an 
event  most  unusual,  for  Henry  Birdwood  was  not  in  his 
1)1  ace. 

"What's  wrong  Avith  him?"  asked  Gertrude  Crymes. 
"Surely  something  uncommon  bad  have  catched  him 
and  struck  him  down,  to  keep  him  away  from  the  Lord's 
House?" 

Sleep  stood  still  and  considered. 

* '  Well,  when  the  time  corned  and  I  offered  for  to  saddle 

46 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  47 

his  pony  along  with  niy  own— there  'twas.  'No,'  he 
answered,  'I  ban't  going.  I  ban't  going  to  pretend  no 
more.'    Those  were  his  very  words." 

Quinton  looked  at  his  wife  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"And  thinking  of  it  in  my  cautious  fashion  all  the  way 
to  chapel,"  continued  Sleep,  "it  struck  me,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, that  perhaps  it  might  be  along  of  your  sister  that's 
jilted  him." 

Then  he  went  down  the  hill  to  where  his  pony  was 
tethered  in  the  yard  of  a  friend's  house. 

A  man  coming  the  other  way  stopped  Quinton. 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  be  let  loose  so  soon,"  he  said. 
"Be  your  old  minister  too  dog-tired  to  give  you  his  full 
dose  to-night?" 

' '  It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  Henry  wasn  't  there, 
Philip,"  said  Mrs.  Crymes.  "That's  your  bad  work. 
Mark  me,  the  young  man  will  break  away  from  all  that 
he  was  taught  now.    And  the  sin  will  be  yours. ' ' 

' '  'Tis  an  ill  wind  blows  nobody  any  good ;  and  if  losing 
Unity  be  going  to  keep  the  man  out  of  that  den,  so  much 
the  better  for  him,"  retorted  Ouldsbroom.  "I'd  like  to 
see  the  shutters  up  in  your  prayer-shop,  Gertrude,  and 
I'd  say  it  to  your  minister  so  soon  as  you.  A  lot  of  snif- 
fing, narrow  zanies  you  be,  and  think  yourselves  the  fat  of 
the  earth.  By  the  same  token,  where 's  the  peacock?  I 
suppose  he  puffed  out  the  lessons  in  his  usual  style  ? ' ' 

' '  He  was  there.  He 's  gone  up  the  hill  with  his  family 
— if  you  mean  Gregory  Twigg. ' ' 

"Who  should  I  mean?  I'll  come  back  along  by  way 
of  Stannon  presently  and  pick  a  bit  of  supper,  if  'tis  all 
the  same  to  you.  I  stuck  my  head  round  the  door  at 
church  this  morning  and  heard  'For  the  third  and  last 
time  of  asking.'  I'd  have  called  for  three  cheers  if  I'd 
had  cheek  enough ;  but  instead  of  that  I  slipped  away 
and  give  the  first  beggar  I  met  a  tanner  for  luck.  So 
long  till  supper.  I  be  going  to  send  a  cartload  of  good 
eating  over  from  Tavistock  for  the  wedding  feast." 

"That's  my  job — you  didn't  ought  to  do  that,"  said 
Quinton  Crymes  in  a  voice  somewhat  half-hearted. 

"Nonsense — nonsense!     You   with  a  family   coming 


48  THE    THIEF   OF    VIRTUE 

and  plenty  to  do  with  your  money.  I'm  off  to  talk  to 
Twigg  about  the  drinks  this  minute." 

He  strode  up  the  hill  and  caught  Mr.  Twigg,  his 
wife,  and  their  elder  children,  before  he  reached  the  top 
of  it. 

Mr.  Twigg  was,  as  usual,  in  a  mood  of  placid  self- 
esteem.  The  sermon  had  pleased  him,  and,  according 
to  his  custom,  he  preached  it  over  again  with  his  own 
improvements  as  he  passed  along. 

' '  The  starry  'osts, ' '  said  Mr.  Twigg ;  ' '  the  starry  'osts 
are  as  nothing;  the  moon  is  as  nothing;  and  the  sun  is 
as  nothing  before  the  True  Light.  Remember,  children, 
when  they  teach  you  about  the  stars  and  such  like  vain 
items,  that  they  are  as  dust  in  the  balance.  There  is 
only  one  True  Light  which  lighteth  every  man  that 
Cometh  into  the  world;  and  we  have  it.  Who  have  it? 
The  Little  Baptists  have  it.  How  humble  is  that  word 
'little' — the  'Little  Baptists.'  We  may  call  ourselves 
'  little, '  but  our  Master  knows  better.  I  say  that  we  have 
climbed  the  true,  narrow  road,  and  stand  on  the  giddy 
peak  at  the  Footstool  of  Grace;  and  we  look  down — we 
look  down — not  with  pride  but  with  thanksgiving — at  the 
others  struggling  upward  by  roads  that  all  lead  on  to 
precipices. ' ' 

"You  put  it  a  lot  better  than  him,"  said  Mrs.  Twigg. 

"Perhaps  I  do.  Is  that  to  be  wondered  at?  Look 
at  our  heads.  Mine  is  pretty  near  as  big  again  as  his. 
I  suppose  if  I  had  been  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  I  should 
have " 

Here  Philip  Ouldsbroom  reached  the  speaker. 

"Twigg — isn't  it?  Can  you  give  me  five  minutes, 
Gregory  ? ' ' 

"Yes — if  it's  nothing  that  doesn't  misbecome  the 
Day." 

"To  do  a  man  a  good  turn  don't  misbecome  the  day, 
or  the  night  either,  I  suppose?" 

"Certainly  not.  I  think  I  can  boast  my  share  of  that 
sort  of  work.  A  tithe,  Ouldsbroom — a  tithe  is  my  gen- 
eral rule.  I  do  not  mention  it  for  self -glory,  but  as  a 
statement  of  fact — and  an  example." 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  49 

** That's  all  right  then;  we'll  trot  on  a  bit  if  your 
missis  don't  mind." 

' '  Let  my  wife  and  my  daughters  trot  on, ' '  said  Gregory 
Twigg.  "I've  a  fine  physic,  thank  God,  and  make  noth- 
ing of  the  hill;  but  I  can't  think  and  walk  fast  all  to 
once.  You  go  ahead,  Mrs.  Twigg,  along  with  Millieent 
Mary  and  Ethel." 

"Now  look  here — about  your  man,  Birdwood,"  began 
the  farmer  as  soon  as  the  publican's  wife  and  children 
were  out  of  earshot. 

' '  He  is  my  man,  as  you  say — a  member  of  my  staff. ' ' 

"What  a  joker  you  are — but  yet  can't  see  a  joke  or 
take  a  joke.  Your  'staff'  would  make  a  cat  laugh — one 
old  woman  and  a  crack-brained  boy  and  they  two  at 
Teign  Head  cot." 

"Remember  the  Day,  please,  Ouldsbroom,  and  don't 
laugh  at  me,  because  I'll  stand  that  from  no  man  living. 
What  about  Henry  Birdwood?  You've  done  him  a  bad 
wrong — a  very  bad  wrong.  As  a  man  of  wide  knowledge, 
of  course  nothing  ever  surprises  me — ^still,  it  was  wrong, 
and  you  know  it." 

"Wrong?  Stuff  and  nonsense.  'Might's  right' where 
the  women  are  concerned,  or  any  other  sort  of  fighting, 
and  your  blessed  God's  always  on  the  side  of  the  strong. 
Look  at  yourself.  Ban't  you  one  of  His  pets  and  always 
have  been  ? ' ' 

"I  hope  so,  and  I  believe  so,"  answered  Mr.  Twigg. 
"And  if  so,  there's  a  very  good  reason.  David  never 
saw  the  righteous  man  begging  his  bread.  However, 
you're  not  in  the  fold,  and  though  I  should  be  glad  to 
see  you  there " 

"Your  fold!  I'd  sooner  go  partner  with  a  pack  of 
good  sporting  wolves  than  bleat  along  with  your  sheep. 
But  Birdwood 's  the  matter.    What  money  does  he  get  ? ' ' 

"  If  I  could  be  astonished,  you  'd  astonish  me, ' '  retorted 
Gregory;  "and  yet,  again,  you  never  would;  for  to  be 
astonished  at  a  fool  is  to  be  a  fool.  And  whatever  I  am, 
in  the  course  of  nature  and  according  to  my  skill  and 
gifts,  fool  is  not  the  word.  You  ask  me  what  wages  I  give 
to  Henry  Birdwood.    In  anybody  but  you  'twould  be  a 


50  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

great  impertinence,  and  perhaps  at  any  time  but  this  I'd 
refuse  to  answer.  But  we  took  bread  at  the  Lord 's  Table 
to-night,  and  I  am  at  peace  with  all  men,  including  my- 
self. It  may  be  over-generous,  or  it  may  not  be,  but,  be 
it  as  it  will,  Henry  gets  eighteen  shillings. ' ' 

"Don't  you  worry  about  being  over-generous,  Twigg. 
Your  best  friend  won't  blame  you  there.  Well,  'tis  this 
way :  I  've  beaten  the  poor  devil  out  of  the  field — smoth- 
ered him ;  and  now  I  've  got  my  girl,  I  just  begin  to  see, 
in  a  sort  of  dim  way,  what  he  must  feel  to  have  lost  her. ' ' 

"If  your  conscience  speaks,  listen  to  it." 

"  'Tisn't  conscience — I've  got  no  conscience,  and  don't 
want  none.  But  I've  got  a  fellow-feeling  for  every  sort 
of  man  down  in  his  marrow-bones,  and,  in  a  word,  I  want 
to  do  Birdwood  a  good  turn." 

"Well,  that's  your  business,  not  mine.  Many  is  the 
good  turn  have  been  put  into  my  heart  to  do,  Oulds- 
broom ;  and  I  never  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  prompting. ' ' 

"If,  now,  Henry  was  to  hear  you'd  raised  his  money  to 
a  pound,  'twould  be  gert  news  for  him. ' ' 

"This  is  not  the  still  small  voice,  and  don't  pretend  it 
is, ' '  said  Mr.  Twigg.  '  *  You  deceive  yourself.  Anything 
more  sly  and  mean  I  never  did  hear.  You  want  me  to 
spend  two  more  shillings  a  week  on  one  of  my  staff,  and 
you  get  the  credit.  You  godless  fellow — and  the  cheek 
of  it  to  a  man  in  my  position ! ' ' 

Philip  laughed. 

"  'Tis  just  the  other  way,"  he  answered;  "and  none 
but  a  blockhead  like  you  would  have  thought  I  meant 
that.  For  the  minute  he 's  cruel  sore  because  I  've  bested 
him,  and  I  can't  do  him  any  sort  of  a  good  turn  openly 
till  he's  calmed  down  a  bit.  In  fact,  I  rode  over  last  week 
with  an  idea,  and  he  behaved  in  a  very  manly  way  and 
told  me  to  go  to  blue,  blazing  hell.  I  could  have  shaken 
hands  with  him  at  hearing  those  fine  words  in  the  mouth 
of  a  Little  Baptist." 

' '  Don 't  say  that,  and  don 't  think  it, ' '  interrupted  Mr. 
Twigg  warmly.  ' '  He 's  left  us.  Satan 's  led  him  into  the 
wilderness.  We're  all  praying  that  he'll  come  back;  but 
for  the  moment  he 's  broke  loose. ' ' 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  61 

*'Well,  anyway,  I  can't  do  nought  for  him  at  present, 
because  'tis  poison  to  him  to  hear  my  name.  He'd  lie 
behind  a  hedge  for  me,  I  do  believe.  So,  until  he  gets 
over  the  stroke  of  losing  Unity  Crymes,  I  can  only  help 
him  in  secret.  Therefore  I  ax  you  to  put  two  bob  a  week 
to  his  money  and  let  me  pay  you  privately.  'Twill  cheer 
the  poor  beggar  up  a  little  these  dark  days." 

"I'm  well  used  to  financial  operations  large  and 
small, ' '  replied  the  other.  ' '  At  the  last  Duchy  dinner  the 
bailiff  said  out  before  the  throng  that  my  accounts  were 
a  marvel.  Just  a  gift,  and  I  thank  the  Lord  for  my 
power  of  figures  with  my  other  possessions.  To  take 
two  shillings  from  you  and  add  them  to  Henry's  wages 
can  easily  be  done,  of  course." 

"Then  do  it,"  said  Philip;  "and  here's  a  florin,  so 
begin  this  week.  It  must  go  on  till  I  find  him  a  better 
job,  which  I  easily  shall  do  come  presently. ' ' 

"If  you're  going  to  meddle  with  my  staff "  began 

Gregory ;  but  the  other  cut  him  short. 

"Chuck  that.  Now  there's  another  thing  that  hits  you 
much  closer.  I'm  going  to  be  married  Thursday,  and 
'tis  a  toss  up  whether  I  go  down  to  Two  Bridges  for  the 
drinks,  or  come  to  you  for  'em." 

"I  wish  it  wasn't  the  Lord's  Day,"  answered  Twigg. 
"I  suppose  you  couldn't  walk  home  and  have  some  sup- 
per with  me  and  talk  about  other  things  till  midnight? 
After  the  clock's  struck,  I'll  go  into  drink  in  a  manner 
that  will  surprise  you ;  for  I've  a  knowledge  of  the  higher 
drinks — wine,  in  fact — ^that  you  won't  match  this  side  of 
Exeter." 

' '  Right,  my  old  bird  !  But  I  've  got  to  eat  to  Stannon 
first  and  cuddle  my  girl  for  an  hour.  Then  I  '11  come  over 
to  Warren  House ;  and  I  shall  expect  you  to  open  a  bottle 
the  minute  your  blessed  Lord 's  Day  be  over. ' ' 

' '  Not,  of  course,  to  go  into  figures  till  after  midnight — 
still  I  should  like  to  know,  in  quite  a  general  way,  what 
you  propose  to  spend,  Ouldsbroom  ?  'Twill  work  at  the 
back  of  my  mind  unconsciously,  and  so  the  Sabbath  won 't 
be  broken;  yet,  after  midnight,  I  shall  have  it  all  ready 
and  be  able  to  tell  you  what  can  be  done." 


52  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

"Three  pound  on  the  drink  I  shall  spend,  and  ten 
shilling  on  the  tobacco. ' ' 

"Not  another  word  then!  Leave  it  at  that.  I'll  ex- 
pect you  between  eleven  and  twelve.  We  '11  open  a  bottle, 
too,  since  you  command  it,  and  drink  to  your  good  for- 
tune in  the  married  state. ' ' 

"Eight;  and  mind  you  remember  Birdwood  and  his 
extra  money, ' '  answered  Philip.  ' '  Take  the  credit  your- 
self. That  won't  be  difficult  to  a  man  with  such  large 
ideas  as  you.  But  of  course  my  name  musn't  come 
into  it." 

They  parted,  and  Ouldsbroom  went  northerly  to  Stan- 
non  while  the  publican  overtook  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Two  nights  before  his  marriage-day  Ouldsbroom  went 
to  see  Barbara  Hext.  He  had  planned  a  little  jollity  for 
the  Postbridge  children,  and  Barbara  was  well  content 
to  assist  him.  Others  also  lent  their  aid.  A  tea  was  to 
be  given  in  the  village  schoolroom,  and  all  the  local  boys 
and  girls  were  invited. 

' '  I  want  for  the  little  toads  to  remember  the  spread  for 
many  a  day,"  declared  Philip.  "Be  the  sweeties  and 
fruit  got  for  'em?" 

"  'Twill  all  arrive  to-morrow  by  carrier,  and  it's  going 
to  cost  you  two  pounds  ten  shillings,  my  man. ' ' 

"More — surely?    I  thought  'twas  to  run  to  three?" 

"No,"  she  said.  "I'm  doing  my  share.  The  children 
are  all  very  good  customers  of  mine,  and  I  'm  glad  of  the 
chance  to  help  make  'em  happy. ' ' 

"I'm  terrible  fond  of  'em,  and  so's  Unity.  A  quiver- 
full  is  what  I  want.  Will  you  be  gossip  to  the  first  ? "  he 
asked. 

She  shook  her  head  at  him. 

"Don't  meet  troubles  half  way.  How's  the  girl  bear- 
ing up  ?  " 

He  looked  uneasy. 

"She's  all  right.  But  a  bit  dazed,  I  think.  Not  too 
good  company  for  the  moment.  Full  of  her  own  thoughts, 
no  doubt,  and  what  she's  going  to  do  at  Hartland.  A 
terrible  tidy  woman,  I  fancy.  Goeth  long  walks  'pon  the 
Moor  alone,  and  won't  let  me  come.  I  catched  her  cry- 
ing, if  you'll  believe  it — 'twas  a  pitiful  sight,  and  I 
didn't  know  what  the  mischief  to  do." 

"Tears  are  new  to  you — eh?  Got  to  forty  years  old 
and  never  learned  the  truth  about  women's  tears!    Her 

53 


54  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

tears  needn't  trouble  you,  I  reckon.  No — nor  any  other 
female's.  Don't  I  know  their  worth  that  have  shed  my 
share?  You  might  so  soon  pity  a  goose  going  barefoot 
as  a  crying  woman.    Remember  that. ' ' 

"All  the  same  she  ban't  the  crying  sort,  and  it  didn't 
ought  to  be  a  crying  time.    What 's  she  got  to  cry  for  ? ' ' 

"Plenty,  for  that  matter.  She's  done  a  dirty  thing, 
and — you  needn't  bounce  and  bluster  here,  Philip — you 
know  it — none  better." 

He  flushed  and  snorted. 

"I  thought  you,  at  least,  had  more  sense.  If  she  likes 
me  better  than  t'other,  what  law's  to  prevent  her  being 
true  to  herself  and  to  me?" 

"True  to  herself  very  like;  there's  some  who  are  only 
true  to  themselves  when  they  are  being  untrue  to  others. 
Perhaps  she's  that  sort,  but  I  hope  not,  I'm  sure.  'Tis 
your  strength  is  to  blame.  She  was  that  man's  ewe 
lamb — his  all." 

' '  What  rot  you  people  talk  ! "  he  burst  out ;  ' '  why, 
good  God  Almighty,  I'm  so  friendly  to  Birdwood  as  any 
chap  living.  I've  got  no  quarrel  with  him.  I  couldn't 
make  the  woman  marry  me.  She 's  chose  me,  and  if  she  'd 
chose  me  first  instead  of  second,  and  then  gone  over  to 
another  man,  should  I  have  made  such  a  dickens  of  a 
row  ?  If  the  girl  likes  me  better  than  him,  why  the  mis- 
chief shouldn't  she  change  her  mind?  Isn't  life  full  of 
it?  Don't  we  change  our  minds  every  hour  about  little 
things;  then  why  for  shouldn't  we  change  about  big 
things?" 

"Talk  won't  better  it." 

"I'm  sorry  for  the  man,  and  I  shan't  forget  him.  I'm 
strong;  he  ban't.  Well,  come  presently,  when  his  sore 
heart  be  whole  again,  I'm  going  to  make  it  up  to  him." 

' '  Take  care  he  don 't  make  it  up  to  you. ' ' 

"  I  '11  take  care.  He 's  got  no  more  to  say  since  I  talked 
to  him." 

An  irrational  attitude  flashed  out  in  Barbara.  She 
also  had  her  prejudices. 

"He's  a  Methody."  she  said;  "a  Methody  and  the  son 
of  a  Methody.    Don't  you  forget  that." 


THE    THIEF   OF    VIRTUE  55 

"He's  thrown  'em  over.  This  thing  have  let  a  bit  of 
light  and  air  into  his  mind.  He  've  got  that  much  to  thank 
me  for  already.  I  've  larned  him  to  take  large  views,  and 
he's  chucked  his  chapel  for  a  start.  He'll  thank  me  yet. 
There's  so  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  come  out.  He'll  live 
to  thank  me,  I  tell  you,  for  teaching  him  a  lot  o'  things. 
You  '11  see  us  stout  friends  afore  the  spring  comes  round. ' ' 

' '  Once  a  Methody,  always  ^  Methody, ' '  repeated  Miss 
Hext.  "I  know  'em.  Don't  you  think  that  five  years 
hence — or  fifty  years  hence — that  man  will  be  any  friend 
to  you.  Some  men  might  take  it,  and  swallow  it,  and 
look  back  after  and  even  think  that  'twas  all  for  their 
good ;  but  not  Henry.  If  your  wife  turns  out  the  worst 
wife  that  ever  came  out  of  Postbridge,  he'll  still  feel  that 
he  has  lost  his  all  in  her.  He's  a  young  man  with  a  nar- 
row upbringing  and  a  narrow  way  of  looking  at  life. 
This  is  his  first  facer;  and  that  he's  given  up  going  to 
chapel  on  it  don't  mean  any  good  to  you.  Did  you  read 
Job  a  bit  ago  when  I  advised  you  to  ? " 

"I  started,  but  mighty  soon  went  to  sleep." 

' '  You  're  the  sort — however,  you  don 't  want  my  sense, 
and  I  'm  not  built  to  croak,  I  hope.  But  make  that  man 
your  friend  at  your  peril.  It  can 't  be  in  nature ;  and  if 
you  try  to  break  nature,  she'll  turn  round  and  break  you. 
I've  seen  the  like  in  my  life,  and  I've  seen  the  sequel 
to  it.  Don't  try  to  win  round  him.  Keep  clear  of 
him." 

"There! — There's  charity!  You'm  enough  to  make 
me  turn  church-goer,"  he  said.  "But  you're  wrong  for 
once,  though  not  often  wrong.  I'll  win  him  over;  and 
if  he  won't  be  won — then  let  him  go  to  heel,  and  bide  at 
heel,  for  a  cross-bred  cur  dog." 

Other  customers  came  in — a  washerwoman  and  sick 
nurse  known  as  Betty  Dury,  and  a  tall,  hunchbacked, 
grizzly  headed  man  called  Peter  Culme,  a  water-keeper. 

' '  Give  me  a  pound  of  tea  and  half  a  dozen  dips,  if  you 
please.  Miss,"  said  the  man.  "And  I  do  wish  as  you'd 
marry  somebody  and  take  out  a  licence  to  sell  beer  and 
baccy.  'Tis  cruel  that  us  can't  get  such  common  needs 
in  Postbridge,  and  I  shan't  be  able  to  stand  thicky  blown- 


56  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

up  fool  at  the  'Warren  House'  much  longer.  He  talks 
to  the  people  as  if  they  was  all  school-children  at  a 
revel. ' ' 

"He've  got  his  points  though,  Peter,"  argued  Oulds- 
broom.  "I  was  laying  in  liquor  against  my  marriage 
feed  back-along,  and  the  larning  of  the  man  where  wine 's 
the  matter  be  a  wonder.  I  will  grant  him  that,  though 
a  stuck-up  peacock  in  most  other  ways." 

Miss  Hext  laughed. 

' '  You  silly  creature ! ' '  she  said.  ' '  D  'you  believe  him  ? 
Any  rascal  with  a  big  voice  and  a  lot  o'  bottles  could 
hoodwink  you.  'Tisn't  what  he  knows  about  wines;  'tis 
what  you  don't  know.  He's  sold  you  a  lot  of  poison  so 
like  as  not." 

"  'Tis  old,  however,  and  age  do  build  up  a  poor  wine 
into  valiant  drinking — so  Twigg  swears." 

"Just  a  thing  a  Methody  would  swear,"  she  answered. 
"He  never  had  no  wine  that  would  stand  getting  old. 
I  've  drunk  wine  in  my  time,  and  I  know. ' ' 

' '  Well,  0 '  Thursday  you  '11  be  able  to  judge, ' '  declared 
Philip.  "He  wanted  to  put  me  off  with  French  wine, 
and  let  me  taste  it.  There!  I  thought  'twas  a  bottle 
of  ink  he'd  opened  by  mistake.  'Give  me  brown  sherry 
wine,  as  I  can  see  through  and  know  nought's  hid  in  it,' 
I  said  to  Gregory.  I  '11  have  none  of  this  bewitched  mess. 
Ban't  going  to  begin  my  married  life  poisoning  my 
friends  and  future  relations. '  So  brown  sherry  'twill  be, 
and  a  bottle  of  champagne.  I  would  have  it,  though 
'twill  cost  five  shilling. ' ' 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Betty?"  asked  the  post- 
mistress. "If  you  expect  another  telegram,  I'm  afraid 
'tis  too  late." 

"He's  dead,"  said  the  woman;  "died  last  night.  A 
good  job  too,  poor  soul;  and  my  husband  went  over  for 
to  hear  the  will  this  morning.  We'm  down  for  ten 
pounds,  so  Robert  says  that  I  must  get  a  shadow  o' 
black." 

"I  hope  it  won't  keep  you  from  the  wedding,  or  your 
childer  from  the  party?"  asked  Philip. 

The  woman  was  lean  and  wrinkled,  but  younger  by 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  57 

many  years  than  she  appeared.  Bad  teeth  and  a  mole 
under  her  eye  spoiled  a  face  that  had  been  agreeable  but 
for  these  blemishes. 

"We'm  coming,"  she  said.  "Robert's  brother  wasn't 
much  to  him.  And  he  had  a  hundred  and  fifty  to  leave, 
and  no  family,  and  only  left  us  ten.  For  twenty-five 
Robert  said  as  he  'd  have  mourned  and  took  us  all  to  the 
funeral ;  but  not  for  less.  So  we  shall  be  at  Stannon 
and  the  children  to  the  schoolroom;  and  thank  you  for 
it,  I'm  sure." 

''I  do  hope,  for  the  peace  of  your  party,  as  you  haven't 
asked  Twigg,"  said  Mr.  Culme.  "Dash  that  man!  he 
puts  me  in  a  cool  sweat  o'  fury  every  time  I  meet  him. 
'Neighbour  Culme,'  he  calls  me;  and  I  won't  have  it — 
I  won't  take  'neighbour'  from  the  man." 

"What  is  there  in  that  'neighbour'  that  lowers  a  chap 
in  his  own  conceit?"  asked  Ouldsbroom.  "I  know  just 
how  you  feel,  and  'tis  only  a  saucy  gas-bag  like  Twigg, 
or  the  silly  gentlefolk,  ever  say  it.  I  don't  like  it;  yet 
the  word 's  an  innocent  word. ' ' 

"  'Tis  the  bowldacious  way  he  speaks  it,"  answered 
Culme,  "with  his  nose  cocked  in  the  air,  and  his  gert, 
stoopid  eyes  soaring  over  the  heavens,  as  if  he  was  ex- 
pecting an  angel  with  a  golden  crown  for  him.  Always 
right,  that  man — in  his  own  opinion.  But  if  he  only 
knowed  what  a  lot  he  loses  by  being  so  damned  cock-sure, 
he'd  sing  a  little  smaller  sometimes,  I  do  believe,  and 
allow  there  was  one  or  two  above  him  in  brains  as  well 
as  manners. ' ' 

"If  'tis  'denshiring'  a  bit  of  land,  or  selling  a  hoss,  or 
breeding  ponies,  or  mending  a  chair,  or  teaching  a  child, 
or  drawing  a  glass  of  beer — 'tis  all  the  same,"  said 
Philip.  ' '  His  way 's  the  right  way,  and  everybody  else 's 
way's  the  wrong  way." 

"Yes,  'tis,"  declared  the  water-keeper;  "and  when 
he  comes  to  die,  he  '11  draw  'em  round  the  bed,  if  he 's  got 
wind  enough  left,  and  say, '  Now  watch  me,  and  do  it  like 
what  I  do,  when  'tis  your  turn. '  ' ' 

"Good  for  you,  Peter — the  very  image  of" the  man!'' 
laughed  Philip.     "And  more — all  he's  got  be  the  best. 


58  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

while  the  rest  of  the  world  have  to  put  up  with  second 
best.  His  drink  and  his  wife  and  his  brats,  and  his  house 
and  his  old  sporting  pictures,  and  his  dog  and  his  cat 
and  his  false  teeth — all  can't  be  matched  in  the  king- 
dom." 

''And  what  is  he?"  summed  up  Culme  bitterly.  "No 
more  use  to  anybody  than  the  hump  on  my  shoulder. 
He's  hateful  on  week-days,  but  o'  Sunday  he'd  make  the 
devil  spit.  Piety  dribbles  out  of  him,  like  gravy  out  of 
a  cut  joint,  till  you  want  to  cuss  and  swear.  And  his 
beastly  little  children  sniff  just  the  same  as  him,  and  roll 
their  eyes  the  very  image  of  his  way. ' ' 

"A  common  habit  with  Methodies,"  said  Miss  Hext. 
"As  for  Gregory,  I  know  the  man — vain  inside  and  vain 
out — though  'tis  ignorance  makes  him  what  he  is — not 
wickedness.  But  what's  the  result?  He  never  gets  a 
bit  of  good  advice  from  one  year's  end  to  another.  None 
will  be  at  the  trouble  to  give  it  him,  because  they  know 
he  thinks  nobody  born  can  teach  him  in  anything. ' ' 

Culme  picked  up  his  tea  and  candles  and  went  away, 
but  Mrs.  Dury  waited.  Then  a  thought  struck  Oulds- 
broom.  It  occurred  to  him  that  the  water-keeper's  days 
were  but  grey  and  his  life  cheerless.  Therefore  he  fol- 
lowed Peter. 

' '  Culme ! "  he  shouted.  ' '  Will  'e  come  to  my  wedding 
feast  at  Staunon?  There'll  be  a  good  rally  o'  neigh- 
bours. ' ' 

"Ess  fay,  and  glad  to!" 

"That's  all  right  then.  And  bring  your  old  mother. 
'Twill  liven  her  up." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  I'm  sure." 

"Bring  your  concertina  likewise!" 

"That  I  will!" 

And  the  crooked  Culme  went  on  his  way  rejoicing. 

"A  fine  chap,"  said  I\Irs.  Dury  when  the  men  were 
gone. 

"So  he  is,"  admitted  Barbara.  "But  I  wish  he  was 
as  sensible  as  he  is  large-hearted.  This  is  a  terrible,  bare- 
faced thing  he's  done." 

The  other  nodded. 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  59 

*'Pity  he  couldn't  look  elsewhere  and  leave  them  two 
alone.    However,  he 's  my  sort. ' ' 

"So  he  is  mine.  That's  why  I'm  sorry  for  him.  The 
girl  that  would  take  him  as  that  girl  did,  for  his  farm 
and  his  riches,  isn't  going  to  be  a  good  wife.  We're  all 
bred  to  trouble  as  the  sparks  fly  upw^ard,  Betty,  but  he's 
brewed  a  double  dose  for  himself,  after  the  manner  of 
all  fools." 

"He  was  strong  enough  to  get  Unity  Crymes  away 
from  t'other;  so  he  ought  to  be  strong  enough  to  break 
her  in,"  argued  the  sick  nurse. 

' '  Not  he.    He 's  no  woman-breaker. ' ' 

"They  ban't  married  yet,  come  to  think  of  it.  Per- 
haps she'll  bolt  with  t'other  at  the  last  minute,  like 
Jenny  Webber  did.  And  now  I'll  see  some  black,  Miss 
Hext,  if  you  please. ' ' 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PosTBRiDGE  is  more  ancient  than  the  road  of  Roman 
straightness  that  strikes  through  it.  Round  about  are 
numerous  medieval  monuments.  'Clapper'  bridges  and 
miners'  smelting  houses,  ruined  dwellings  and  symbols 
of  the  Christian  faith  all  stand  within  a  walk  of  the 
hamlet;  while,  more  ancient  yet,  though  of  yesterday 
contrasted  with  the  stone  man's  relics,  shall  be  seen  a 
fragment  of  the  Great  Central  Trackway  or  Fosse  way, 
which  extended  from  Caithness  to  Mounts  Bay  before 
the  Roman  landed.  Fragments  of  this  ancient,  cobbled 
road  still  lie  northerly  of  Postbridge,  and  traverse  Dart 
at  a  shallow  beneath  Hartland  Farm.  Next,  plunging 
into  the  prehistoric  past,  your  antiquary  enters  behind 
the  veil  of  time  to  trace  Neolithic  man  through  Dart- 
moor. Menhirs  and  parallelitha,  hypaethral  circles  and 
hidden  graves,  the  ruins  of  lodges  and  the  shattered  walls 
of  many  an  aboriginal  hamlet  still  stand  upon  these 
naked  hills.  Much  is  obvious,  much  remains  to  be  under- 
stood of  the  vanished  people.  We  have  no  Ariadne's 
clue  to  the  granite  labyrinth,  though  time  may  yet  wake 
a  dawn  of  knowledge  upon  the  mystery  and  lift  light 
above  it.  To-day  this  land  of  tumuli  conceals  some 
secrets  still,  and  its  monuments,  behind  their  deep  in- 
vestment of  the  ages,  challenge  theory  and  defy  proof. 

Sunk  in  an  eternal  and  frozen  winter  of  antiquity  the 
old  stones  stand.  Some  are  obscure  and  need  skilled  eyes 
to  mark  their  order  for  the  work  of  men ;  others  serve  to 
arrest  the  attention  of  a  child. 

Twin,  shattered  circles,  known  locally  as  "The  Grey 
Wethers,"  are  of  this  latter  sort,  and  excite  an  instant 
wonder  in  any  intelligent  mind.     They  stand  upon  the 

60 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  61 

eastern  slope  of  Siddaford  Tor,  and,  seen  from  afar,  out- 
lined against  the  sky  upon  the  earth's  shoulder,  resemble 
sheep  so  closely  that  no  eye  guesses  the  granite  truth  of 
them.  Unlike  the  usual  monuments  of  this  character, 
that  spring  rugged  and  splintered  from  the  heath,  these 
stunted  pillars  have  been  worked.  Though  no  mark  of 
tool  remains,  and  time  has  gnawed  their  contours  into 
roughness,  the  fact  of  fabrication  can  be  proved. 

Now,  upon  the  autumnal  heath  at  gloaming,  some 
stood  like  square  tombstones  in  a  water-logged  burying- 
place  of  eld,  and  some  were  fallen.  Stern,  mysterious 
and  significant  they  spread;  and  by  the  gathering  dark- 
ness round  them;  by  the  waste  spaces  all  seamed  and 
scarred  with  storm;  by  the  few  that  stood  tirelessly 
through  the  centuries  and  the  many  that  had  dropped ; 
by  the  cryptic  writing  of  ebony  and  silver  scrawled  on 
their  faces,  and  by  the  emblem  of  eternity  they  dimly 
shadowed  on  the  hill,  they  might  be  known.  But  the 
hieroglyph  of  the  lichen  is  not  so  obscure ;  the  story  it 
tells  of  nature's  beginning  is  not  so  undecipherable  as 
that  of  the  Grey  Wethers  themselves,  and  the  thing  they 
stood  for  to  men's  hearts  in  the  far-off  morning  of  the 
Age  of  Bronze. 

Henry  Birdwood  sat  on  a  stone  in  the  midst  of  this 
local  sanctity  and  waited  for  Unity  Crymes  to  come  to  him. 

The  first  great  experience  of  his  life  had  swept  over  his 
spirit  and  left  it  changed.  Much  was  gone  from  it,  and 
the  things  that  had  aforetime  flourished  there  were  torn 
out  by  the  roots.  Their  place  knew  them  no  more.  They 
had  prospered  and  made  a  fair  show,  as  half-hardy  vege- 
tation under  glass.  But  the  frost  of  reality  slew  them  and 
probed  with  steel  fingers  the  soil  that  had  sustained  them. 
What  sort  of  crop  would  succeed  none  could  guess; 
neither  did  any  man  know  if  root  as  well  as  branch  of 
Birdwood 's  revealed  characteristics  had  also  perished. 
Whether  the  old  attitude  to  life  would  put  forth  again 
from  his  stricken  heart,  or  whether  a  new  sort  of  seed  was 
sown  when  Unity  jilted  him — ^that  was  hidden  in  time. 
But  Birdwood  himself  perceived  and  encouraged  the 
coming  crop. 


62  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

In  the  primeval  forests  that  roll  about  the  foothills  of 
the  Himalaya,  it  happens  not  seldom  that  tempest  or 
man  strips  the  indigenous  pelt  of  the  hills  and  leaves  all 
naked.  A  verdure  whose  duration  extends  beyond  human 
memory  is  swept  from  the  face  of  the  mountains;  and 
then,  out  of  the  naked  earth,  spring,  not  the  progeny  of 
the  vanished  order,  but  seedlings  of  some  autochthonous 
flora  that  have  been  sown  here  in  still  earlier  time.  For 
centuries  they  have  rested  dormant;  yet  now  their  long 
sleep  ends;  they  germinate;  they  root,  and  rise  to  cover 
the  hills  with  a  vegetation  unfamiliar  to  the  age,  but  no 
stranger  to  the  unchanging  earth  from  which  it  ascends. 

A  like  mystery  had  happened  in  the  case  of  Henry 
Birdwood.  Storms,  as  it  seemed,  had  slain  the  direct 
and  first-hand  inheritance  of  his  father's  blood  in  his 
veins.  That  growth  of  Protestant  instinct  and  simple 
religious  principle  w^as  to  all  appearance  dead.  The  soil 
that  nourished  it  had  been  stripped  bare  by  tornado; 
and  it  remained  to  find  whether  germs  of  deep-sown, 
antecedent  heredities  would  spring  to  light  under  the 
altered  conditions,  or  whether  what  had  apparently  per- 
ished at  this  onset,  yet  held  life  and  would  presently  rise 
again  from  its  ruins. 

One  thing  was  certain :  the  real  man,  for  good  or  ill, 
must  now  appear. 

Henry  Birdwood  looked  down  at  his  home  far  below, 
beside  the  brink  of  Teign,  while  rosy  light  faded  off  the 
hills  and  touched  the  river  in  the  valley. 

Footsteps  approached  him,  but  it  was  not  Unity.  Ned 
Sleep  appeared  on  his  way  home.  ^ 

"Have  you  seen  Unity  Crymes?"  asked  Birdwood; 
and  the  other  drew  up,  scratched  his  head,  and  considered 
first  the  question  and  then  the  answer. 

Henry,  knowing  his  deliberation,  did  not  attempt  to 
hurry  him. 

"No,"  replied  Sleep  at  length,  "I  can't  in  honesty 
say  I've  seen  her.  But  a  woman  I  did  see,  and  she  was 
in  a  very  excited  frame  of  mind,  as  well  she  might  be. 
In  a  word,  'twas  Mrs.  Dury,  the  sick  nurse.  She  was 
travelling  to  Stannon  so  fast  as  her  legs  could  take  her. ' ' 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  63 

*' Why  for?" 

''The  very  question  I  asked  while  she  stood  a  moment 
to  blow.  Mrs.  Crymes  be  brought  to  bed.  And  Mrs. 
Dury  is  a  wonder  for  looking  on  into  the  future,  I'm 
sure;  for,  even  at  that  great  moment,  her  mind  ran  on 
and  she  said,  '  However  will  they  manage  about  the  wed- 
ding? 'Tis  the  day  after  to-morrow!'  *A  home  ques- 
tion,' I  said  to  her,  'and  I'm  glad  I  ban't  the  man  to 
answer  it.'  " 

"That's  their  affair.    Perhaps  'twill  be  put  off." 

"So  it  might,  so  it  might.  'T would  be  a  kindness  in 
you  to  advise  them  to  do  that.  They  may  not  think  of 
it ;  yet  'tis  a  very  good  idea, ' '  declared  Mr.  Sleep. 

Not  the  least  irony  lurked  in  the  remark.  He  was 
quite  excited,  and  had  been  mildly  wondering  all  the 
way  home  what  was  likely  to  happen ;  but  the  possibility 
of  postponement  had  not  occurred  to  him. 

Sleep  crept  forward  over  the  darkening  hill,  and  Bird- 
wood  waited  for  an  hour;  but  much  impatience  marked 
the  vigil,  and  he  walked  up  and  down  without  ceasing. 
The  stars  were  beginning  to  shine,  and  he  was  about  to 
return  to  Teign  Head  when  Unity  Crymes  appeared. 

"I  was  just  off;  then  Sleep  brought  news  that  things 
had  happened  to  delay  you.    So  I  waited  till  now. ' ' 

"My  sister-in-law  have  just  had  a  child — only  a  girl — 
worse  luck  for  her. ' ' 

"Will  it  make  any  difference?" 

"No,  seemingly.  It's  all  happened  so  well  as  can  be, 
and  she  says  she  could  get  up  to-morrow  if  the  doctor 
would  let  her." 

"The  marriage  goes  on?" 

"Yes.  How  terrible  patient  you've  been.  To  think 
you  can  forgive  me  like  this!  Yet  'tis  a  worse  punish- 
ment than  to  scorn  me.    I  feel  a  selfish  wretch  about  it. ' ' 

"  'Tis  no  odds.  You'll  get  over  that.  Who  knows 
what  may  happen?  You  may  live  to  find  even  a  farm 
isn't  everything." 

"Yes,  I  may." 

"I  love  you  too  well  to  wish  you  anything  but  happi- 
ness all  the  same.     You've  took  everything  from  me — - 


64  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

everything ;  and  still  I  'm  only  sorry  I  haven 't  got  more  to 
give.  You've  stripped  me  of  my  religion  and  my  hope 
and  my  trust;  you've  scattered  me;  you've  done  for 
me.  But  you  can't  choke  me  off  loving  you.  And  you 
can 't  choke  me  off  knowing  that  you  love  me,  for  all  your 
cruelty. ' ' 

' '  You  '11  find  love  far  better  worth  than  mine. ' ' 

"I've  got  yours — that's  what  I  want  to  remind  you. 
He  can't  take  that.  It  was  all  coming  so  steady  if 
you  could  only  have  waited.  Why,  last  week  Twigg 
put  two  shillings  more  on  to  my  money.  I'm  getting 
known. ' ' 

"You're  a  long  sight  too  good  for  me.  Of  course 
you're  getting  known." 

"And  getting  known  to  myself,  too.  This  is  the  first 
knock-down  blow  I've  ever  had.  You  can't  lose  without 
larning.    I  've  lost  you ;  but  I  've  larned  a  lot. ' ' 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Yes,"  he  continued.  "I've  larned  what  was  worth 
a  pang  or  two.  Perhaps,  as  time  goes  on,  I'll  teach  you 
a  bit.  Your  man  be  wiser  here  and  there  than  I  thought. 
'Tis  a  fool's  trick  to  ask  Providence  to  help  you.  Prov- 
idence haven't  got  time.  After  I  talked  with  Oulds- 
broom  and  tried  to  move  his  heart,  and  found  that  I 
might  so  soon  have  tried  to  move  this  stone  we're  sitting 
on,  I  went  home;  and  the  queer  feeling  in  my  mind  all 
the  way  was — ^not  hate  of  Ouldsbroom — I  couldn't  hate 
him  for  loving  you — but  wonder  at  the  terrific  power  of 
him.  'Twas  like  talking  against  a  hurricane.  The  hur- 
ricane hacln  't  no  ill-will  towards  me ;  but  if  I  got  in  the 
way — well,  then  I  had  to  feel  it,  not  because  I  was  Henry 
Birdwood,  but  only  because  I'd  got  in  the  way.  He 
showed  me  that." 

"He  likes  you  very  well,  and  means  to  let  vou  know 
it." 

"I'm  sure  he  does.  He  likes  everybody.  But  listen 
what  I  done.  'You're  strong,  Philip  Ouldsbroom,'  I 
said  to  myself;  'maybe  you're  stronger  than  me;  but 
I've  got  them  on  my  side  afore  whose  strength  your 
strength  be  weakness. '    Yes,  I  said  that,  and  who  clid  I 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  65 

mean?  I  meant  Unity  Crymes  and  my  Maker.  And 
first  I  come  down,  as  you  know,  and  prayed  to  you. ' ' 

"Don't,  for  God's  sake,  go  over  it  all  again." 

"I'm  not  going  to.  I  only  want  for  you  to  understand 
how  'tis.  First  I  came  and  prayed  to  you,  and  you 
wouldn't  hear.  So  that  was  my  first  hope  dead.  And 
then  I  prayed  to  God,  and  reminded  Him  as  I  'd  done  His 
work  very  faithful  and  steady,  and  put  the  case  afore 
Him  out  of  a  broken  heart — for  broken  I  was  then.  But 
He  didn't  hear  neither.  And  after  a  tidy  week  of  tor- 
ment, I  began  to  see  what  the  world  really  means  and 
how  the  fight  goes  to  the  strongest,  and  how  victory  be 
won  on  our  feet,  not  on  our  knees.  D  'you  understand  all 
that?  If  you  don't,  you  will.  Philip's  right  to  go  his 
way;  he's  a  lesson  to  such  as  me.  Ride  rough-shod  and 
don 't  think  to  interest  God  Almighty  in  your  affairs,  be- 
cause you  won't — not  Him  nor  anybody  else.  He  only 
remembers  one  thing  about  us,  and  that  is  when  we've 
got  to  die.  Then  He  rules  us  out  of  the  book.  And  all 
this  stuff  about  eternity  is  bosh  too.  For  if  He  cared 
for  us  anywhere  He'd  care  for  us  here;  and  if  He  was 
a  just  God  He'd  let  us  start  fair  and  not  handicap  half 
the  world  to  hell  from  the  beginning.  I  've  larned  all  this 
wisdom  from  the  ways  of  your  husband  to  be.  A  great 
teacher,  him!  And  what's  the  outcome?  I'm  going  to 
be  strong  too;  I'm  going  to  get  my  way  too.  You'll  see 
— you'll  see,  Unity.  And  maybe  I'll  teach  him  a  little 
some  day,  in  exchange  for  all  I've  larned." 

"This  is  awful  news  to  me,"  she  said.  "I'd  got  to 
look  on  my  soul  as  lost — but  yours?  Don't  you  go  all 
wrong  because  I  have." 

"Never  bleat  that  stuff  no  more!  Be  strong.  This 
praying  is  tomfoolery — I've  proved  it.  I  know  what 
I'm  going  to  do.  But  the  thing  is  to  do  it — not  talk 
about  it.  Look  at  Ouldsbroom.  Who  is  there  don't  like 
him  and  think  highly  of  him?  He's  smote  me  into  the 
dust.  Who  thinks  the  worse  of  him  for  doing  it  ?  Who 
comes  to  help  me  up?  Nobody.  I  thought  that  mine 
was  just  a  pattern  ease  for  God  to  handle;  but  'twasn't. 
'Tis  just  a  pattern  case  to  show  what  a  man's  worth  in 

5 


66  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

himself.     And,  afore  another  year's  gone,  I  shall  find 
out — and  you  will. ' ' 

"I  know  very  well  what  you're  worth.  But  don't 
let  it  drive  you  away  f rpm  chapel,  Henry. ' ' 

"Drop  all  that.  'Tis  worse  than  cant  from  you.  Be 
strong,  I  tell  you.  Did  you  get  the  strength  to  throw 
me  over  at  chapel?  Was  it  God  Almighty  gave  you  to 
Philip?  No,  Ouldsbroom  took  you.  Be  strong — like 
your  future  husband  is — and  like  I  mean  to  be. ' ' 

"I'll  never  forget  all  you've  been  to  me." 

"You  never  will.  A  lot's  going  to  happen  to  surprise 
you  yet— if  I'm  strong  enough.  If  I'm  not — then  Sleep 
will  find  me  some  day  hanging  by  the  neck  to  the  roof- 
tree  in  the  barn  down  there;  and  he'll  stand  and  look 
and  wonder  for  an  hour  or  two  whether  'twould  be  the 
proper  thing  to  cut  me  down.  And  he'll  think  it  out  and 
decide  that  he'd  better  not  take  too  much  upon  himself 
and  meddle  in  other  people's  business;  and  then  he'll 
saddle  the  pony  and  ride  off  to  Postbridge — or  maybe 
over  to  Hartland — with  the  gay  news." 

' '  You  '11  drive  me  mad. ' ' 

"I'll  drive  you — but  not  mad.  Let  the  future  look 
after  the  future.  I'm  a  new  man.  The  strongest  physic's 
the  nastiest.  So  all's  said.  I'll  go  a  bit  of  the  way  back 
with  you.  Philip  wouldn't  mind  that.  I  wanted  to  see 
you  first.  I'm  going  to  see  him  next — and  tell  him  all 
I  've  told  you. ' ' 

"I  don't  understand.  I  only  know  I'm  terrible  miser- 
able." 

"That's  your  weakness.  The  strong  are  never  miser- 
able. You've  done  very  well  and  been  very  wise.  Each 
for  himself.  I  've  got  something  for  you  in  my  pocket — 
a  wedding  present  'tis.  That  shows  what  a  lot  I  've  been 
larning.  A  funny  world — I  never  thought  to  give  you 
any  wedding  present  but  myself.    But  now " 

He  took  a  parcel  from  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to  her. 

"  'Tis  just  a  little  housewife's  case  with  rows  of 
needles  and  a  thimble  and  such  like.  I  thought  it  might 
be  useful. ' ' 

"What  a  man  you  are!    You  talk  about  trying  to  be 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  67 

large-minded  and  forgiving.  I  didn  't  know  'twas  in  men 
to  forgive  what  I've  done." 

"There's  nought  woman  can  do  that  man  can't  for- 
give, if  they  love  enough.    You  '11  use  they  needles  ? ' ' 

"And  think  of  the  giver." 

"Why  not?  And  if  Philip  offers  to  be  friendly  with 
me,  you  won't  forbid  it?" 

' '  If  you  can  be  friendly — who  are  we  not  to  rejoice  at 
it?  You  talk  of  learning  from  him — 'tis  for  him  to  learn 
from  you. ' ' 

' '  No — no ;  I  'm  not  worthy  to  black  his  boots — not  yet. 
He's  older — such  a  lot  older,  you  see.  I'll  never  be  able 
to  thrust  my  shoulder  through  life  like  him. ' ' 

Thus  were  Birdwood's  perceptions  quickening  daily 
and  hourly.  He  felt  them  growing  while  he  spoke  to 
Unity.  He  thought  more  than  he  said,  and  he  remem- 
bered that  the  fox  can  go  where  the  hound  cannot. 

Now  he  walked  beside  Unity  to  the  hill  above  Stannon 
Farm,  and  left  her  there. 

"I  shan't  see  you  afore  the  wedding;  but  I'm  coming 
to  that.  'Twill  be  a  plucky  thing  to  do — about  the  first 
plucky  thing  I've  ever  done." 

' '  You  '11  be  welcome, ' '  she  said. 

"You  want  me  to  come?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"That's  my  reason,  remember.  I  wouldn't  come  if 
you'd  rather  I  didn't." 

"  'Twill  sting  me  to  the  bottom  of  my  soul  to  see 
you  there ;  and  yet  I  wouldn  't  miss  that  sting, ' '  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean.  'Tis  the  worn-out  edge 
of  your  conscience  cutting  ragged  and  hurting.  I've 
heard  my  old  preaching  father  say  that.  Get  rid  of  con- 
science so  quick  as  you  can.  Unity.  Be  like  Ouldsbroom 
and  like  me.  We've  got  no  conscience.  You  can't  run 
with  the  hare  and  the  hunt.  You  can't  do  what  you've 
done  and  keep  a  conscience  on  a  chain.  Choke  it  and  be 
free.     Get  happiness  out  of  life.     Good-bye." 

He  shook  her  hand  warmly  and  held  it  a  moment. 
Then  he  departed  and  left  her  to  marvel  at  this  amazing 
change  in  the  man.    He  was  grown  in  a  space  of  weeks 


68  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

from  boyhood  to  maturity.  He  seemed  to  stand  on  the 
ruins  of  himself.  She  admired  him  as  she  had  never  ad- 
mired him.  She  told  herself  that  had  he  spoken  thus 
when  she  met  him  at  the  sheepfold  after  Philip's  pro- 
posal, she  could  never  have  left  him. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Philip  Ouldsbroom  entered  into  the  state  of  marriage 
with  many  and  varied  resolutions.  He  continued,  how- 
ever, to  be  himself,  and  within  six  months  the  resolutions 
were  forgotten.  His  wife,  more  stable,  began  the  new 
life  quite  conscious  of  its  large  significance  and  found 
her  nature  well  able  to  cope  with  the  addition.  She 
created  another  atmosphere  at  Hartland.  The  rooms  were 
papered;  the  ceilings  were  whitewashed;  broken  walls 
were  mended ;  broken  gates  were  removed  and  new  gates 
hung  in  place  of  them.  The  garden  showed  her  handi- 
work; the  very  thatch  on  the  roof  signalled  that  Unity's 
reign  was  begun,  and  flashed  gold  out  of  the  silver  where 
it  was  mended.  Old  cracked  crocks  and  cloam  were 
swept  away;  old  worm-eaten  furniture  was  hacked  up 
for  firewood  or  given  to  those  who  coveted  it.  She  set 
about  her  task  steadily  and  with  method.  She  made  no 
violent  alterations,  but  instituted  a  gradual  and  all-em- 
bracing change.  The  task  was  easy,  for  she  could  do  no 
wrong  in  her  husband's  eyes.  Each  suggestion  he  hailed 
with  delight  and  declared  that  none  but  she  could  have 
thought  upon.  His  own  ideas  w^ere  usually  of  a  greater 
size,  involving  no  small  expenditure;  and  the  execution 
of  these  she  negatived  or  postponed  with  skill  and  tact. 

A  man  of  Philip's  pattern  w^as  clay  in  Unity's  hand, 
despite  her  youth;  and  his  transparent  kindness  and 
childlike  errors  of  temper  and  judgment  w^ere  readily 
perceived  and  weighed  by  his  wife  before  they  had  been 
married  six  weeks.  She  liked  him  w^ell,  and  even 
glimpsed  the  beauty  of  such  a  large  spirit ;  but  she  never 

69 


70  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

respected  him  and  never  feared  him.  She  made  him 
work  harder;  but  seldom  refused  the  pleasures  that  he 
planned  for  her,  and  rejoiced  him  mightily  by  sharing 
the  things  that  he  held  good.  She  went  to  revels  and 
other  gatherings  with  him ;  she  made  no  demur  when  he 
asked  friends  to  supper  or,  on  Sundays,  to  dinner.  She 
was  always  willing  and  always  cheerful  and  hopeful. 
She  hid  exactly  what  she  pleased  from  him,  for  suspicion 
was  foreign  to  his  nature.  They  had  not  much  in  com- 
mon at  heart;  but  she  affected  to  share  his  sympathies 
more  closely  than  was  in  truth  the  case ;  and  he  believed 
her  absolutely,  and  never  ceased  to  marvel  at  the  amaz- 
ing parity  of  emotion  that  existed  between  them.  If  he 
was  angry,  she  simulated  anger;  if  he  was  amused,  she 
shared  his  amusement.  She  looked  to  his  clothes,  and 
made  him  dress  in  a  manner  worthy  of  his  position.  She 
worked  with  delicate  touches  to  waken  a  wider  self-re- 
spect in  him.  She  sought  to  raise  him  from  his  easy 
attitude  of  equality  with  all  men.  Here,  however,  she 
failed;  but  she  did  not  blame  him.  She  blamed  herself 
and  cast  about  how  to  approach  the  problem  in  a  light 
more  favourable. 

They  both  loved  children,  and  wanted  them.  But  any 
over-mastering  desire  is  a  weakness  and  throws  the  ob- 
sessed individual  open  to  attack.  A  passion,  in  what- 
soever direction,  argues  appetite  so  strong  that  judgment 
may  fail  before  the  strain  and  a  fault  in  the  armour  ap- 
pear. 

Unity  Ouldsbroom,  having  no  doubt  of  the  answer, 
asked  her  husband  after  they  were  married  whether  she 
might  continue  to  attend  the  services  of  the  Little  Bap- 
tists. He  laughed  and  said,  "Just  so  often  as  ever  you 
like ;  but  I  lay  you  '11  soon  get  sick  of  'em  after  you  know 
my  way  better. ' ' 

He  was  right:  the  larger  attitude  of  Ouldsbroom  and 
his  contempt  of  her  sect  influenced  her;  while  another 
defection  did  more,  and  decided  her.  Henry  Birdwood 
returned  not  to  his  old  worship,  and  none  of  his  friends 
could  prevail  upon  him  to  do  so.  He  had  taken  his  dis- 
appointment in  a  manner  that  puzzled  the  people;  and 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  71 

some  held  him  a  very  wise  man,  and  some  called  him  a 
coward.  But  the  experience  changed  his  life,  added  years 
to  his  knowledge  and  self-reliance,  and  shook  up  the  basal 
ingredients  of  his  nature,  so  that  they  began  to  appear. 

His  father,  the  itinerant  preacher,  hearing  that  he  had 
flung  over  the  faith,  came  to  see  him,  prayed  long,  and 
strove  to  prevail  with  him;  but  he  was  firm,  and  the  old 
man  Avent  broken-hearted  about  his  business.  Oulds- 
broom,  who  affected  Henry 's  company  after  his  marriage, 
and  was  not  denied  it,  congratulated  the  shepherd  on  his 
pluck  and  aired  his  own  nebulous  opinions  at  great 
length,  while  Birdwood  listened  and  flattered  the  elder 
man.  And  Unity,  compounding,  woman  fashion,  with 
convention  and  opinion,  though  she  left  the  Little  Bap- 
tists, became  a  member  of  the  church  congregation.  She 
declared  that  since  she  had  there  been  married,  her  sen- 
timent determined  her  to  worship  there  henceforth. 

On  a  day  in  spring,  Ouldsbroom  met  the  shepherd  upon 
his  way  to  Postbridge,  and  they  walked  together  between 
Hartland  and  the  village.  Sometimes  Unity  and  her 
husband  drank  tea  at  Teign  Head  on  Sundays,  when  the 
weather  was  fair  and  the  Moor  passable ;  but  more  often 
Birdwood  accepted  their  hospitality. 

"  'Tis  nice  going  now  up  over,"  said  Henry;  *'why  for 
don't  you  and  your  misses  come  along  next  Sunday  and 
have  a  dish  of  tea  with  me  ?  I  shall  be  lonesome,  for  Sleep 
is  away.  He've  heard  of  a  job  to  Tavistock  and  nought 
will  do  but  he  must  see  if  he  can  better  himself.  He've 
been  conning  over  it  for  a  fortnight  and  will  find  the  place 
filled,  as  usual,  for  he 's  always  a  week  behind  the  fair. ' ' 

"He  don't  get  enough,"  declared  Philip;  "no  more 
don't  you,  for  that  matter.  Twigg's  like  all  them  Dis- 
senters— hungry  as  a  hawk  for  money.  I  should  have 
looked  around  afore  now  to  try  and  get  you  a  better  job ; 
but  I  should  be  awful  sorry  to  lose  you  from  these  parts. ' ' 

' '  Thank  you,  I  'm  sure ;  and  I  should  be  awful  sorry  to 
go.  I  can't  see  myself  away  from  Teign  Head.  I  like 
the  freedom  and  I  like  being  in  the  saddle  half  my  time 
If  the  Moor-man — Twigg,  I  mean — would  but  raise  it  to 
twenty-five  shillings,  I  could  set  up  to  stop  here  for  ever. ' ' 


72  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do.  But  'tis  difficult  now,  because 
you  've  throwed  over  his  meeting-house. ' ' 

"That  don't  count  really,  though  of  course  he's  said 
so.  He  knows  exactly  how  far  he'd  have  to  look  for 
another  shepherd  like  me.  What  does  he  care  for  a  man's 
soul  so  long  as  his  body  be  doing  his  work  well  and  cheap  ? 
If  I  was  to  strike  for  more,  I  believe  he'd  pay  it;  but  I 
shan't  this  year  though  I  may  a  bit  later." 

"That's  right,"  declared  Ouldsbroom.  "I  like  to  see 
you  with  a  good  conceit  of  yourself.  I  taught  you  that, 
Henry. ' ' 

"That  and  a  lot  else." 

* '  Leave  it  till  the  end  of  this  year,  and  then,  if  you  and 
me  together  can't  squeeze  a  bit  more  out  of  him,  I'll  cast 
about.  Why,  I  might  get  rids  of  my  chap  and  let  you 
have  his  place;  but  ban't  your  job  ezacally." 

"Like  you  to  think  of  such  a  fine  thing.  But  that 
wouldn't  do.  I'll  bide  where  I  be  for  a  bit  yet.  Who 
knows ?  Perhaps  I'll  go  back  to  the  Little  Baptists  again. 
Nearly  all  the  chaps  here  with  sheep  be  chapel  members." 

' '  Don 't  you  do  that.  Keep  free  of  'em ;  hear  Barbara 
Hext  tell  about  em.  She 's  so  wise  as  a  man  in  everything 
else;  but  where  they  be  concerned  she's  all  woman,  and 
can  sting  like  a  hornet. ' ' 

"Perhaps  she've  got  good  cause.  I'd  like  to  know  her 
history.  'Twould  teach  us  a  lot  about  women  in  general 
if  we  did." 

"You  get  a  wife,  Henry;  that's  the  way  to  larn  about 
'em !  Second-hand  larning  be  nothing  to  having  a  female 
always  on  your  hands — or  in  your  arms.  Pick  the  right 
one,  and  your  days  will  be  such  that  heaven  couldn  't  beat 
'em.  I  know — I  know.  Why,  my  dear  man,  we  don't 
begin  to  live  till  we're  married;  we  don't  know  we're 
born  till  we're  married.  And  that's  true,  whether  it 
turns  out  well  or  ill.  We  mess  along — poor,  half-finished 
things  that  we  are — and  we  have  a  go  at  the  girls  off  and 
on,  and  amuse  ourselves  with  the  naughty  ones,  and  try 
and  look  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  our  mouths  when 
we'm  along  with  the  good  ones;  but  'tis  all  moonshine, 
and  the  naughty  ones  be  just  as  much  hidden  from  us 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  73 

as  the  good — may  be  more.  We  don't  know  nought  about 
'em  inside  their  skins.  But  you  marry,  and  then  you'll 
begin  to  get  a  dim  sort  of  an  idea  what  a  good  woman  is 
— if  you  marry  a  good  one.  And  no  doubt  t'other  sort 
let  you  see  a  bit  of  the  naked  truth  too. ' ' 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  assented  Birdwood. 

*' Yes,  'tis  so.  I  never  had  much  use  for  women  myself ; 
but  looking  back  I  laugh  sometimes  to  think  I  went  blun- 
dering along,  like  a  runaway  hoop,  all  alone,  and  thought 
I  was  cutting  a  good  figure  in  the  world.  There 's  only  one 
thing  wanting,  however "   He  broke  off  and  sighed. 

Birdwood  did  not  ask  for  information  upon  the  point, 
because  he  knew  to  what  the  other  referred.  After  a 
silence  he  spoke. 

' '  Here 's  my  way.  And  I  '11  count  to  see  you  Sunday  if 
the  weather  holds  fair." 

"Better  lock  up  your  place  and  come  to  us.  Come  for 
the  day.    Ride  over  early. ' ' 

"Your  wife  will  want  to  go  to  church." 

"I  shan't." 

"I'll  come  over  then." 

They  parted,  and  Ouldsbroom,  grown  thoughtful  at  the 
shadow  in  his  heart,  went  forward  to  the  post  office.  He 
was  soon  cheerful  again,  and  joined  half  a  dozen  children 
on  the  brink  of  the  river. 

"What's  the  fun,  Sally?"  he  asked  of  a  girl  who  stood 
holding  a  baby  in  her  arms. 

"  Us  be  here  to  see  my  brother  drown  four  chets, ' '  said 
the  child  stolidly. 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  and  raised  his  voice.  "Come  here, 
you  childer — all  of  you.  I'll  show  'e  something  better 
than  drowning  kittens  up  at  Miss  Hext's  shop.  Quick, 
the  pack  of  'e ! " 

He  strode  off,  knowing  well  that  they  would  all  fol- 
low. Even  the  executioner  did  not  delay.  He  flung  the 
blind,  useless  life  into  the  river  and  hastened  after 
Ouldsbroom, 

Fourpence  was  spent  and  the  children  departed ;  then 
Barbara  asked  Philip  his  business. 

"Of  course  if  there's  a  boy  or  girl  in  sight  you  must 


74  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

drag  it  in  here  and  waste  your  coppers, ' '  she  said ;  ' '  but 
what  have  you  come  for?" 

"Wish  to  God  there  was  a  boy  or  girl  in  sight  at 
Hartland,"  he  answered  abruptly.  Then  he  filled  his 
pipe. 

"I  haven't  come  for  nothing  in  particular,  but  for  a 
bit  of  a  tell  with  you.  You  're  the  only  creature  with  any 
sense  in  Postbridge. " 

"Thank  you,  I'm  sure.  'Tis  lucky  there's  more  in  my 
shop  than  sense,  or  I  shouldn  't  have  many  customers. ' ' 

"I've  just  been  going  along  with  Henry  Birdwood. 
You  was  out  there,  for  all  your  wit.  You  thought  I'd 
never  win  the  man;  but  we're  as  thick  as  thieves  now." 

' '  Thieves  always  fall  out  sooner  or  late,  however. ' ' 

"We  shan't.  I  want  to  better  him  presently.  The 
puzzle  is  how  to  do  it." 

"Find  him  a  wife." 

"Ah!  just  what  I  was  saying,  but  easy  to  talk.  'Tis 
a  ticklish  task  that.  Yet  good  advice,  too.  A  bachelor 
lives  like  a  toad  under  a  harrow.  'Tis  a  dog's  life.  But 
men  have  got  to  choose  their  own  wives. ' ' 

' '  Well,  he  did,  didn  't  he  ?  'Twould  be  only  fair  if  you 
could  find  what  you  took  away  from  him. ' ' 

"So  it  would.  Though  he's  not  much  set  that  way. 
Rather  sour,  in  fact,  against  females  in  general,  though 
very  good  friends  with  Unity,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  Always 
civil  anyhow. ' ' 

' '  We  can 't  many  of  us  see  far.  And  'tis  the  best  wis- 
dom of  the  rare,  long-sighted  people  to  keep  their  sight 
to  themselves." 

"Another  child  coming  at  Stannon,"  broke  off  Philip. 
"The  luck  some  women  have!" 

"And  never  know  it." 

"A  curious  thing,"  he  continued:  "me  and  Unity  do 
think  so  much  alike  that  we  often  guess  t 'other's 
thought. ' ' 

"A  man's  a  fool  to  go  guessing  at  woman's  thoughts. 
He  might  so  well  pry  into  her  cupboards." 

"You  don't  know  what  'tis  to  be  one  with  a  man 
through  and  through." 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  75 

"No,  I  don't. — nor  any  other  woman." 

"Unity  does.  We're  hungering  for  a  boy.  That's 
what  we  both  want  more  than  anything  on  earth. ' ' 

"I  hope  'twill  happen,  I'm  sure.  Life  must  run  easy 
if  you  can  spend  time  worrying  about  that." 

"Perhaps  you  never  wanted  to  be  a  mother  yourself? 
But  a  lot  of  women  have  a  great  hunger  for  it,  and  none 
more  than  my  Mdfe.  'Tis  a  bias  of  her  mind.  I'll  catch 
her  sometimes  just  thinking  and  doing  nought.  You'd 
never  believe  that  she  could  be  doing  nothing  unless  she 
was  asleep — would  you?  But  off  and  on— even  in  the 
middle  of  her  bustling  days — she'll  stand  still  and  stare 
afore  her  as  if  she  was  struck.  She'll  let  a  pot  boil  over 
in  them  minutes;  or  a  cat  climb  on  the  table.  It  comes 
over  her  like  that." 

' '  I  should  never  have  thought  it. " 

"You  don't  like  her,"  he  said,  and  his  under  lip  stuck 
out  and  his  jaw  hardened.  "You  never  have  liked  her 
since  she  took  me  instead  of  Birdwood. ' ' 

' '  I  like  a  lot  in  her,  Philip.  She 's  a  lesson  to  this  lazy 
place  in  a  hundred  ways.  But  I  don't  like  her  so  well 
as  I  like  you." 

"She's  worth  a  thousand  of  me.  She's  made  me.  I 
look  back  at  myself  and  feel  ashamed  of  such  a  good-for- 
noughfc  as  once  I  was.  And  gives  way  to  me,  too,  mind 
you!  'Tisn't  all  one-sided.  She'll  make  holiday  with 
me  gay  as  a  lark,  and  put  her  cares  out  of  her  mind,  and 
sit  on  the  green-side  for  an  hour  at  a  time  by  the  river 
while  I'm  catching  a  few  trout,  or  anything  like  that. 
If  I  tell  her  to  come  out,  as  I  did  three  days  ago,  and 
listen  to  a  pheasant  calling,  she'll  come  and  take  as  much 
joy  in  it  as  I  could  wish.  She's  a  wonder,  and  more  won- 
derful every  day  of  her  life." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  these  things.  I  hope  your  wife  and 
me  will  know  each  other  better." 

"Come  up,"  he  exclaimed.  "Come  up  Sunday  and 
eat  your  dinner  along  with  us." 

"No,  I  won't  do  that.    Later  on,  perhaps." 

"There's  only  one  small  thing  that  ever  makes  her 
chide  me,"  continued   Ouldsbroom,     "And  that's   my 


76  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

language.  She  can't  abide  a  crooked  word,  for  some 
reason — well  used  to  'em  as  she  is. ' ' 

"More  can  I,"  declared  Barbara.  "You  do  swear  a 
great  deal  too  much." 

"I  know — I  know,"  admitted  the  farmer;  "but  there 
is  such  a  devil  of  a  lot  to  swear  at ! " 

"You've  just  said  all's  as  well  with  you  as  can  be." 

"With  me — yes;  but  I  ban't  everybody.  I  mean 
round  about.  There's  Duchj,  to  begin  with.  Who's 
going  to  help  swearing  at  that?  Then  there's  all  these 
new  things  starting  on  the  Moor,  and  the  cannons  that 
carry  their  beastly  cannon-balls  three  miles,  they  say; 
and  there's  they  Little  Baptists  and  their  little  ways; 
and  there's  the  hard  trouble  of  getting  labour.  Why, 
every  young  man  worth  his  salt  be  going  off  the  land, 
so  far  as  I  can  see.  In  fact,  the  times  be  enough  to  make 
any  man  swear ;  and  they  ought  to  make  him  swear.  But 
I  will  have  my  way  through  it  all." 

' '  The  times  was  always  bad  and  they  always  will  be, ' ' 
she  said. 

He  sprang  to  another  subject  with  the  customary  weak- 
ness of  relation  peculiar  to  his  mind. 

"I  offered  for  to  be  gossip  to  Quinton  Crymes,  his 
coming  child.  And  he  was  content  that  I  should  be,  but 
Gertrude  wouldn't  have  it.  Why  for?  Because  she 
says  I'm  a  man  without  God  in  my  life.  She  wouldn't 
trust  her  child  to  me  to  teach  it  things.  Silly,  moon- 
faced creature!  But  I  talked  to  her.  'If  I  haven't 
enough  sense  to  lend  a  hand  to  a  green,  young,  newborn 
child,  'tis  pity,'  I  said;  'and  whether  or  no,  I'd  larn  him 
to  put  a  braver  face  on  his  own  life  and  to  start  it  with 
a  better  conceit  of  himself  than  ever  you  slimy  Little 
Baptists  will.  You'll  teach  him  to  call  himself  a  worm, 
and  a  slave  to  sin,  and  a  wicked,  useless  creature  not  fit 
to  be  saved — not  worth  saving.  But  I  'd  teach  him  to  be 
like  me — a  man  that  ban 't  wicked  and  ban 't  a  worm,  and 
be  quite  strong  enough  and  sensible  enough  to  save  him- 
self!' That's  what  I  told  Gertrude  Crymes,  and  she 
stared  like  a  stuck  pig  and  said  she  hoped  the  Lord  would 
forgive  me. ' ' 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  77 

''All  good  sense,"  declared  Barbara.  "If  you  were 
as  clever  as  your  words,  I  'd  have  no  fear  for  you. ' ' 

"  I  am ;  and  a  darned  sight  cleverer.  However,  I  ban 't 
clever  enough  to  get  a  boy  seemingly.  Still  I  feel  very 
hopeful  about  it." 

' '  So  you  should.     There 's  the  telegraph ! ' ' 

A  bell  tinkled,  and  Miss  Hext  went  to  her  work  while 
Ouldsbroom  looked  round  him,  found  a  little  plum-cake, 
shouted  to  Barbara  that  he  had  taken  it  for  his  wife, 
and  then  left  the  shop. 


CHAPTER  X 

The  colour  strophe  and  antistrophe  of  the  greater  and 
lesser  gorse  is  nowhere  more  easily  observed  than  upon 
the  slopes  about  Stannon  farm.  When  the  cuckoo  cries, 
the  greater  furzes  glow,  and  the  linnet  makes  her  nest 
in  the  fragrant  acres  of  them;  anon,  after  the  blaze  of 
the  spring  has  died  out,  the  smaller  plant  awakens,  lights 
the  rolling  hills,  and  creeps  to  the  very  feet  of  its  sleep- 
ing brother,  now  sunk  into  uniform  masses  of  jade  green. 
The  lesser  gorse  twines  into  the  rosy  purple  of  the 
heather,  and  spreads  the  pomp  of  August  on  the  heights 
and  valleys.  It  shines  with  golden  warmth;  the  cloud- 
shadows  scarcely  lower  its  splendour  of  rich  tone; 
through  it  twines  the  pink  network  of  the  dodder,  and 
beside  it  twinkle  the  euphrasy  and  tormentilla  and  sweet 
wild  thyme. 

Over  this  autumn  splendour  on  Merripit  Hill  came  the 
man,  Ned  Sleep,  upon  his  pony  at  an  early  hour.  A 
heavy  dew  was  on  all  things,  and  each  grey  cone  of 
spider's  web  and  blade  of  blue  moor-grass  glittered  with 
moisture.  But  though  the  time  was  yet  short  of  six 
o'clock,  Sleep's  passing  had  been  observed  from  Stannon. 
A  friend  marked  him  and  shouted  to  arrest  attention. 

Ned  saw  himself  beckoned,  pulled  up  his  pony,  de- 
liberated, and  then  turned  to  the  vale  beneath.  The 
distant  man  advanced,  threaded  Stannon  stream,  and 
presently  stood  beside  him. 

' '  Morning,  Sleep !  I  seed  you  going  along  the  hill 
and  thought  you'd  be  so  good  as  to  carry  a  message  for 
me  to  '  Warren  House. '  ' ' 

"I  will  do  so,"  answered  Sleep.    "I'm  going  to  More- 

78 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  79 

ton  to-day,  and  you  might  very  likely  wonder  why  for  I 
travel  this  road;  but  I've  got  to  call  at  Mr.  Twigg's  upon 
my  way." 

"So  much  the  better.  I  meant  to  see  him  myself,  but 
I'm  terrible  busy  getting  in  fern  afore  the  weather 
breaks. ' ' 

"The  fern's  plenty  this  year.  Us  be  going  to  save  a 
nice  bit  I  cut  down  back-along.  And  what  might  you 
want  me  to  say  to  Mr.  Twigg  1 ' ' 

Quinton  Crymes  explained  his  desires. 

' '  'Tis  like  this :  my  wife  be  going  to  have  another  baby 
afore  long,  and  she  ban't  doing  very  clever  just  now,  and 
doctor  won't  let  her  go  to  chapel  or  anywhere.  My  little 
girl  have  got  the  measles  also.  And  Gertrude's  down- 
daunted  and  crying  out  for  a  bit  of  prayer  and  pious 
discourse.  You  know  her  sort.  You  and  me  be  religious 
men,  and  so's  Twigg.  And  pastor's  away  sick,  and,  as 
you  know,  Gregory  Twigg  be  praying  for  the  people  till 
he  comes  back.  So  there  'tis.  I  call  upon  Twigg,  as 
standing  in  pastor's  place,  to  come  and  have  a  tell  with 
my  wife  and  give  her  a  bit  of  religion.  That  is,  if  the 
man  ban 't  too  busy  to  do  it. ' ' 

"Let  me  go  over  what  you  say  in  my  mind,"  said 
Sleep;  and  for  the  space  of  two  minutes  he  considered 
all  that  he  had  heard. 

"Mr.  Twigg  to  come  up  over  to  talk  along  with  your 
wife  and  cheer  her  up,  because  she  can't  get  to  chapel 
just  at  present?" 

"That's  it,  Ned." 

"Why  for  don't  you  pray?  I've  heard  you  fetch  a 
very  tidy  prayer  more'n  once  of  a  Sunday." 

"A  woman  don't  want  to  hear  her  husband  pray — she 
knoweth  a  bit  too  much  about  him." 

Sleep  nodded. 

"I  daresay  'tis  so.  Their  nature  puts  the  stranger  man 
above  the  every-day  one.  Then  it  shall  be  done.  I'll 
give  Mr.  Twigg  your  message." 

"How's  Birdwood  going  on?  Haven't  seen  him  this 
longful  time." 

'How's  Birdwood,'  "  repeated  the  other  reflectively. 


X    4- 


80  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

"You  ask  me  'How's  Birdwood  going  on?'  Well,  not 
to  speak  in  a  hurry,  I  reckon  he's  coming  back  a  little 
nearer  to  grace.  Yes,  Crymes,  I  see  a  mark  about  him. 
'Twouldn't  amaze  me  if  he  was  to  be  viewed  again  to 
chapel  afore  we  're  all  very  much  older. ' ' 

"  'Twould  be  an  answer  to  prayer." 

"Not  but  what  he's  stiff-necked  still,  and  I  may  be 
wrong.  'Tis  only  an  idea  in  my  mind,  and  I  beg  you 
won't  let  it  go  no  further." 

"No,  no— I  shan't  do  that." 

' '  As  for  me, ' '  volunteered  Sleep,  ' '  in  confidence,  I  may 
tell  you  I'm  still  on  the  lookout  for  a  new  billet.  But  it 
don't  offer." 

"Well,  good-morning,  Ned.    I  must  get  to  work." 

' '  So  must  I ;  so  must  I. ' ' 

The  men  parted,  and  anon  Sleep  delivered  his  message 
at  the  'Warren  House'  Inn. 

As  a  result  of  it  Mr.  Twigg,  who  felt  himself  respon- 
sible for  the  spiritual  welfare  of  the  Little  Baptists  dur- 
ing their  pastor's  absence,  Avalked  over  to  Stannon  late 
in  the  afternoon, 

Quinton  Crymes  saw  the  stout  body  of  him  descending 
the  hillside,  hastened  indoors,  and  gave  his  wife  the  word 
that  Gregory  Twigg  approached. 

She  sighed,  with  evident  relief. 

"Keep  him  at  the  door  for  two  minutes,"  she  said; 
"and  I'll  just  whip  aside  and  turn  my  apern  and  ope  the 
parlour  window.  'Tis  a  thought  stuffy  in  there,  as  we 
haven't  used  the  room  for  a  good  while." 

She  aired  the  parlour,  made  herself  tidy,  and  issued  a 
few  orders  to  the  girl  that  worked  for  her. 

"Get  the  tea,"  she  said;  "hot  up  they  cakes  as  I 
made  last  Saturday,  and  then  keep  baby  quiet. ' ' 

When  Twigg  arrived,  Gertrude  thanked  him  warmly 
for  coming,  and  found  that  the  versatile  man  had  quite 
assumed  the  habit  of  the  pastor. 

' '  Thank  Him  who  sent  me, ' '  said  Mr.  Twigg.  ' '  I  have 
been  blessed  with  more  gifts  than  what  you  '11  find  in  most 
men,  Mrs.  Crymes;  but  there's  another  side  to  it,  and 
the  more  gifts,  the  more  work." 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  81 

* '  I  'm  sure  'tis  terrible  lucky  for  minister  that  he  can  go 
off  and  feel  you're  pretty  near  so  clever  at  the  souls  as 
him,"  declared  Mr.  Crymes. 

"It  is  lucky,  as  you  say.  In  fact,  so  far  as  the  natural 
skill  goes,  I'm  better  than  him.  'Tis  his  business,  and  a 
very  good  and  helpful  man  is  Medlicott,  and  we're  for- 
tunate to  have  him  in  our  midst;  but  the  real  touch  is 
mine.  You  may  have  noticed  it.  Practice  has  made 
Medlicott  what  he  is.  I  've  got  what  no  practice  can  give 
— the  Fire  of  the  Spirit.  Put  a  living  soul  in  front  of 
me  and  I  lose  sight  of  everything  else  and  feel  myself  as 
great  as  Paul.  I'm  always  astonishing  myself  and  my 
wife  with  my  flow  of  speech  and  the  way  I  bring  out  an 
argument. ' ' 

"  I  'm  sure  you  astonish  us  too, ' '  said  Quinton  Crymes ; 
"and  I  shan't  forget  your  kindness  in  coming  over — at 
a  busy  season  of  the  year  as  'tis  with  you  at  the  public- 
house.  I  should  be  terrible  vexed  if  I  thought  we'd  put 
you  out." 

"Have  no  fear  for  that.  The  mind  that's  regulated 
like  mine  don 't  get  put  out.  I  wake  up  of  a  morning  and 
say :  '  I  thank  Thee,  0  God,  that  I  find  myself  ready  and 
willing  for  everything  that  may  come  along.'  Nothing's 
too  big  for  me;  because,  though  terrible  big  problems 
turn  up  and  I  often  feel  I'm  Duchy's  right  hand,  and 
know,  when  the  bailiff  appears,  that  he's  coming  for  me 
to  set  right  his  great  difficulties — yet  my  brain  is  large 
enough  for  all.  No  man  catches  me  in  error.  I  some- 
times wonder  whether  the  Prince  of  Wales  have  ever 
heard  tell  of  me;  for  in  a  way,  I've  a  hand  in  getting 
him  his  money,  and  no  fair  man  can  say  I  don 't  put  many 
and  many  a  pound  in  his  noble  pocket  along  of  all  I  do  to 
help  Duchy. ' ' 

"Without  a  doubt  he's  heard  of  you — or  ought  to 
have.  And  now  I'll  be  getting  back  to  my  work  and 
leave  you  with  the  missis,"  replied  Mr.  Crymes.  "I  shall 
take  it  very  kind  if  you'll  drink  a  dish  of  tea  with  us 
afore  you  go." 

Then  he  edged  away  out  of  the  room,  and  Gregory  and 
the  woman  were  left  together. 


82  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

''  'Tis  a  great  misfortune  to  be  cut  off  from  chapel," 
said  Mr.  Twigg,  "and  with  a  man  like  Crymes  you're 
bound  to  feel  it.  When  my  wife  has  to  hide  herself  from 
the  public  eye,  'tis  nought,  because  she've  got  me  at  her 
side;  and  I'm  like  one  of  my  own  beer  barrels:  you  can 
turn  the  tap  and  get  a  drop  of  piety,  or  sense,  or  a  bit  of 
fun,  or  just  what  your  nature  craves  at  any  moment. 
But  'tisn't  given  to  every  woman  to  marry  the  like  of 
me,  and  nobody  knows  that  better  than  my  wife.  You 
want  uplifting  to  the  Throne  of  Grace,  and  I  dare  say 
Crymes  haven 't  got  the  knack  of  comfort  like  me.  I  don 't 
blame  him,  of  course.  And  now  I've  got  an  hour  afore  I 
must  be  gone,  and  I'll  pray  for  half  of  it  and  answer  any 
questions ;  and  then  I  '11  have  a  cup  of  weak  tea. ' ' 

"  'Tis  most  kind  of  you.  A  regular  chapel  member 
like  me  gets  to  feel  the  want  something  cruel, ' '  declared 
Gertrude. 

"And  so  you  should.  Now  you  sit  in  that  easy  chair. 
The  Lord  don't  want  them  in  your  state  to  kneel;  and 
I  '11  stand  here  and  lift  my  voice  to  the  Almighty. ' ' 

He  looked  at  his  watch;  then  folded  his  hands  over 
his  chest,  flung  up  his  eyes  and  half  closed  them,  so  that 
the  whites  alone  appeared.  After  a  few  moments  of 
silent  preparation,  he  began. 

His  voice  had  now  entirely  changed  into  a  slow  drawl ; 
but  his  opinions,  his  attitude  to  his  Maker  and  to  him- 
self, continued  as  before. 

"0  Almighty  Father,  Maker  of  all  things  visible  and 
invisible,  look,  I  beseech  Thee,  upon  this  visible  woman 
and  also  upon  the  invisible  child  that  she  is  about  to 
fetch  forth  into  the  world.  I  pray  Thee  let  it  be  num- 
bered among  the  few  who  are  chosen  and  not  among  the 
many  who  must  be  rejected ;  let  it  be  a  sheep  and  not  a 
goat,  0  Lord,  and  hear  the  prayer  of  the  just  man,  which 
availeth  much " 

Mr.  Twigg  proceeded  in  this  strain  for  twenty  min- 
utes ;  then  he  varied  his  attitude  by  kneeling  down.  The 
listener,  with  clasped  hands,  open  mouth,  and  straining 
attention,  followed  his  efforts  and  obviously  won  immense 
peace  of  mind  and  exaltation  of  spirit  from  them. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  83 

Towards  the  finish  Mr.  Twigg  tired  and  looked  at  his 
watch  again ;  then  he  made  a  final  effort. 

"0  Saviour  of  mankind  and  womankind,  who  art 
more  ready  to  listen  than  we  to  pray,  I  ask  Thee  this 
afternoon  especially  to  have  mercy  on  Thy  servant, 
Gertrude  Crymes,  to  strengthen  her  and  fortify  her  that 
she  may  be  a  valiant  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord,  and 
that  she  may  bring  forth  in  due  season,  according  to  Thy 
holy  will  and  ordinance,  a  child  worthy  to  become  a 
Christian  child  and  to  belong  to  Thy  chosen  Little  Bap- 
tists, who  are  a  light  to  lighten  the  darkness  and  the 
glory  of  Thy  people.    Amen. ' ' 

Mr.  Twngg  bent  himself  over  the  parlour  sofa  and 
completed  the  service  in  silence;  Gertrude  shed  a  few 
comfortable  tears. 

** There;  and  now  if  you've  got  the  kettle  boiling,  a 
cup  of  hot  but  weak  tea  will  be  grateful, ' '  said  the  little 
man,  rising.  "I  hope  you  find  yourself  better,  Sister 
Crymes  ? ' ' 

'' I 'm  a  different  woman, "  said  she.  "  'Tis  a  gert  gift, 
and  you'm  hiding  your  light  in  your  public-house  under 
a  bushel.  To  think  such  a  praj^er  as  that  all  prayed  for 
one  poor,  worthless  woman." 

"Not  worthless,"  corrected  Mr.  Twigg.  ''You  are 
far  from  worthless.  And,  in  any  case,  even  the  worst 
woman  in  your  condition  can't  be  worthless.  You  never 
know  how  great  a  servant  of  Christ  be  on  the  way.  'Tis 
nervous  times  now  for  you  mothers,  I  grant;  because 
if  I  read  the  Book  right,  and  I  can 't  say  I  know  anybody 
who  reads  it  righter,  it  looks  very  like  as  if  Antichrist 
was  upon  us.  And  a  mother  the  Horror  must  have ;  and 
a  father  too,  for  that  matter — if  'tis  the  Devil  himself. 
But  you've  no  call  to  fret  there.  He'll  come  out  of  the 
Upper  Ten,  if  I  know  anything.  God's  a  watchful  God, 
and  He  won't  let  a  Little  Baptist  have  any  hand  in  the 
monster. ' ' 

With  this  comforting  reflection  Mr.  Twigg  joined  the 
household  at  tea  in  the  l^itchen ;  he  ate  and  drank 
heartily,  and  then,  being  reminded  of  a  former  subject, 
insisted  on  lifting  another  petition. 


84  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

' '  Don 't  you  go,  none  of  you, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  've  got  one 
more  thing  to  say,  and  say  it  I  will.  It  don't  concern 
none  of  you;  but  Sister  Crymes  mentioned  the  matter, 
and  if  'tis  within  the  power  of  prayer  to  hasten  it,  as 
who  shall  doubt?  let  us  do  so." 

Crymes  and  his  wife,  the  girl  who  worked  for  Mrs. 
Crymes,  and  the  old  labourer,  James  Coaker,  all  knelt 
down,  and  Gregory,  rested  and  much  refreshed,  prayed 
for  Henry  Birdwood,  that  his  backsliding  might  cease 
and  that  he  might  be  rescued  from  the  undying  worm  and 
the  fire  which  never  shall  be  quenched,  even  as  a  brand 
from  the  burning,  and  the  widow's  piece  of  silver  which 
was  lost  and  is  found  again.  He  hinted  to  the  Deity 
that  it  was  no  ordinary  individual  who  now  interceded 
with  Him  for  the  soul  of  the  shepherd,  and  he  concluded 
by  leaving  the  matter  with  confidence  in  the  hand  of 
Henry's  Creator.  He  then  wished  them  all  well  and 
went  his  way  in  perfect  tune  with  finite  and  infinite. 

"A  man  to  be  envied,  if  he  wasn't  so  good  that  'twould 
be  wrong  to  envy  him,"  said  Quinton  Crymes.  "I'll 
have  a  cup  of  tea  now  he 's  gone ;  but  I  can 't  eat  or  drink 
easy  in  his  company :  he 's  so  much  above  me. ' ' 

"A  very  heartening  prayer  he  prayed — a  good  half 
hour,  and  all  too  short, ' '  answered  his  wife.  ' '  When  you 
see  the  man  he  is,  I'm  sure  'tis  a  wonder  to  me  you  can 
keep  to  church,  James.    Do  your  parson  pray  like  that  ? ' ' 

"No,"  answered  Mr.  Coaker.  "To  be  honest,  he  don't. 
At  least  I've  never  heard  him  get  at  grips  with  the  Al- 
mighty same  as  Twigg  can.  'Tis  as  if  Gregory  was 
talking  to  the  Duchy  Bailiif — and  having  the  best  of  the 
argument. ' ' 

"That's  the  man!"  declared  Crymes.  "You've  hit 
him  in  a  word,  Jimmy!  He'll  argue  black's  white,  if 
'tis  to  save  a  soul.  Your  chap  sticks  to  the  prayer  book 
and  han't  much  more  alive  than  the  marker  put  in  be- 
tween the  leaves.  When  you  know  a  thing  by  heart — 
there  'tis — the  virtue  fades  out  of  it.  Twigg  takes  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven  by  storm — that's  what  he  does.  He 
won't  hear  'No'  for  an  answer,  that  man  won't.  In  his 
business  with  God,  just  the  same  as  in  his  business  with 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  85 

men,  he  will  have  the  upper  hand — to  say  it  in  a  pious 
spirit. ' ' 

"There  ban't  no  surprises  to  your  church,"  added 
Mrs.  Crymes.  "  'Tis  all  rule  o'  thumb.  You  can  go  to 
sleep  anywhere  and,  when  you  waken,  pick  up  the  stitch 
again,  like  knitting." 

''But  look  at  the  high  class  of  the  prayers,"  argued 
Mr.  Coaker.  "When  does  a  common  man,  like  Twigg, 
light  upon  such  fine,  rolling  words  as  we've  got  in  our 
prayer  book?  He  might  pray  all  his  wind  out  of  his 
body  and  not  come  within  shouting  distance  of  what  we 
ax  for  the  Queen  and  Royal  Family." 

They  debated  the  rival  virtues  of  their  systems  of  be- 
lief, but  neither  convinced  the  other. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Philip  Ouldsbroom,  his  wife,  and  Henry  Birdwood  were 
driving  back  to  Postbridge  from  Princetown  fair.  The 
farmer  had  sold  six  ponies  to  advantage ;  he  had  enjoyed 
all  the  attractions  of  the  revel  and  drunk  a  great  deal 
of  beer  and  spirits.  He  was  now  market-merry,  and  his 
wife  held  the  reins. 

Philip  chattered  incessantly,  and  shouted  jokes  to  the 
riders  who  passed  his  cart  or  the  pedestrians  he  overtook. 
The  pony  sale  had  put  him  into  great  good  humour;  he 
was  building  important  new  projects  upon  the  result 
of  it. 

' '  They  Cornish  men  know  a  pony  when  they  see  one, ' ' 
he  said  to  Henry.  ' '  '  The  very  best  ponies  in  the  fair ' — 
that 's  what  they  called  mine.  There 's  tons  of  cash  to  be 
picked  up  that  way,  if  a  man  uses  his  brains.  I  shall  put 
a  slice  of  money  in  it — Unity  willing — eh,  Unity  ? ' ' 

"  'Twas  a  bit  of  luck,"  she  answered.  "It  mightn't 
happen  again." 

"No  luck  about  it — not  at  all,"  argued  her  husband. 
"Think  of  all  I've  done  for  they  ponies,  and  how  I 
brought  'em  on,  and  the  trouble  I  took  to  choose  the  sire. 
'Tis  sense,  not  luck.  Sense,  not  luck,  I  say.  A  great 
future  may  come  out  of  'em,  handled  properly — not  only 
for  me,  but  for  all  of  us  in  these  parts — for  all  of  us — 
for  all  of  us." 

"You're  the  leading  man  at  Postbridge,"  declared 
Birdwood,  "and  'twould  be  a  proper  thing  if  you  could 
throw  a  bit  of  light  on  the  subject  and  help  other  farmers 
to  do  the  same.  Baskerville,  of  Shaugh  Prior,  and  you  be 
the  only  men  that  really  understand  the  business. ' ' 

"Don't  you  get  telling  him  that,  Henry,"  said  Mrs. 
Ouldsbroom.     "My  husband  spends  too  much  time  as 

86 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  87 

it  is  'pon  other  people's  errands.  If  he's  leading  man  in 
Postbridge,  he  don't  behave  like  it.  A  child  can  order 
him  about." 

'*A  child,  yes,"  admitted  Philip.  "I'll  do  anything 
for  the  dinky  dears.  But  'tis  I  order  t 'others  about; 
they  don 't  order  me,  I  assure  you.  Birdwood  here  knows 
what  I  am — I  say  he  knows  what  I  am.  M^  'no'  be  'no,' 
and  my  'yes'  be  'yes.'  Show  me  the  man  as  will  order 
me  about — I  'd  like  to  see  him ;  I  'd  like  to  see  him ! ' ' 

He  became  truculent,  and  his  wife  expressed  regret. 

"I  didn't  mean  nothing  more  than  that  you  are  a  lot 
too  kind,  Phil — too  kind  and  too  easy." 

"So  you  are,  Ouldsbroom — that's  no  more  than  truth 
any  wa}',"  declared  the  shepherd.  "Plow  much  money 
did  you  give  all  they  mountebanks  and  foreigners  and 
beggars  at  the  fair?  A  good  shilling  or  two,  I'll  war- 
rant." 

"There  was  a  terrible  fine  Italian  woman  there,"  said 
Philip.  "Black  as  a  crow  her  eyes,  and  her  hair  too. 
She  was  dressed  so  gaudy  as  her  little  parrot,  and  for 
twopence  the  blessed  bird  drawed  out  a  card  and  told  me 
— told  me  my  fortune — damn  the  little  liar ! ' ' 

He  grew  grim  suddenly  with  thoughts  darkened. 

"Hullo!  what  was  it  then?" 

Without  replying  the  farmer  drew  a  card  from  his 
pocket  and  handed  it  to  Birdwood. 

Unity's  lips  tightened,  and  she  looked  at  the  horse's 
head.     She  had  seen  the  card. 

"  'A  good  wife  and  seven  children — plenty  of  money 
and  plenty  of  friends!'  "  read  out  the  younger  man. 
"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  that?" 

"The  matter  is  it  ban't  true." 

"All  true  but  one  item,  after  all.  You  can't  expect  a 
poll-parrot  to  do  better,  eh,  Unity  ? ' ' 

"I  reckon  we'd  sooner  have  all  the  rest  a  lie  and  that 
one  item  right, ' '  she  answered,  still  looking  before  her. 

Birdwood  felt  the  matter  too  delicate  for  a  bachelor's 
tongue  and  said  so.  He  knew  the  trouble  of  this  home 
well  enough. 

Talk  drifted  into  other  channels,  and  they  began  to 


88  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

descend  the  hill  to  Two  Bridges.  Arrived  at  the  bottom, 
Ouldsbroom  insisted  on  stopping. 

"I  must  have  another  drink,"  he  declared.  But  his 
wife  persuaded  him  not  to  alight.  She  whispered  to  him, 
and  he  gave  a  short  laugh  and  yielded. 

"All  right — get  on,"  he  said. 

Presently  he  explained  to  Henry. 

"If  you  want  a  woman  to  do  your  bidding,  you  must 
be  very  ready  to  do  hers — mind  that.  Me  and  Unity  be 
two  halves  of  a  flail — one  nought  without  t'other — one 
nought  without  t'other  I  say;  and  'tis  as  easy  for  me  to 
pleasure  her  as  'tis  for  her  to  please  me.  But  you  don't 
find  it  so  in  every  home,  Henry — not  in  every  home. 
More  often  than  not  the  friendship's  a  make-believe 
thing,  done  to  fool  the  neighbours.  Wedded  life  be  built 
on  give-and-take,  and  that's  a  duty  in  some  homes,  for 
the  apple-cart  would  soon  be  off  the  wheels  without  it. 
But  when  you  get  understanding  men  and  women  that 
have  the  luck  to  be  wedded,  and  each — well,  like  me  and 
my  wife — a  wish  is  enough.  We  can't  have  everything, 
I  suppose." 

They  reached  home  at  dusk,  and  Birdwood  mounted 
his  pony,  which  had  brought  him  very  early  to  Hartland, 
and  set  oft'  for  Teign  Head.  Unity  asked  him  to  stop 
to  supper,  but  he  refused. 

Their  relations  were  openly  cordial  and  secretly  close. 
Many  opportunities  to  see  each  other  alone  occurred,  and 
intimacy  had  long  been  established  between  them.  Oulds- 
broom was  a  man  to  whom  jealousy  was  unknown.  He 
could  not  feel  the  emotion,  and  his  view  of  it  showed  that 
even  imagination  was  unable  to  picture  it  for  him. 

The  subject  formed  matter  for  debate  at  Miss  Hext's 
upon  the  occasion  of  a  tragedy  in  a  neighbouring  hamlet. 
A  hedge-cutter 's  wife  had  left  her  husband  and  run  away 
with  a  carpenter  to  Canada.  Mr.  Culme,  the  water- 
bailiff,  took  a  grave  view  of  the  event,  and  Gregory 
Twigg,  who  was  also  of  the  company,  agreed  with 
him. 

"In  Canada,  or  if  not  Canada,  'tis  in  America,"  said 
the  Little  Baptist,  "a  man  is  divorced  for  the  asking 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  89 

and  a  woman  for  little  more.  -Nothing  is  done  against  it, 
though  for  my  part,  if  I  was  an  American  I  should  stand 
up  for  the  married  state  and  never  vote  a  man  to  Par- 
liament who  supported  such  a  loose  way  of  living." 

"Bah!"  answered  Ouldsbroom.  "What  do  you  and 
the  likes  of  you  know  about  large-minded  people?  A 
big  nation  takes  big  views,  and  so  do  I ;  and  one  of  my 
views  be  this,  that  if  a  pair  be  sick  to  death  of  the  sight 
of  each  other,  'tis  tyranny  chaining  'em  together  any 
more.  And  I'll  go  further  and  say  that  if  one  of  the 
parties  be  sick  of  the  other,  no  right-spirited  man  or 
woman  would  want  to  go  on  with  it. ' ' 

"Easy  to  talk — a  man  happily  married  like  you,"  said 
Mr.  Twigg.  "But  I,  though  I  suppose  no  man  ever 
chose  his  wife  with  much  better  judgment  and  fore- 
thought than  me,  can  look  around  and  see  the  danger  of 
loosening  the  marriage  bond.  Those  that  God  hath  joined 
together,  let  no  man  put  asunder. ' ' 

"That's  all  right,"  allowed  Philip;  "but  you  know 
how  many  come  together  without  any  help  of  God,  and 
to  keep  'em  in  double  harness  for  life  be  doing  the  devil 's 
work,  if  there  is  such  a  party.  If  my  wife  corned  to  me 
to-morrow  and  said  '  Phil,  I  've  found  a  chap  I  like  better 
than  you, '  d  'you  think  that  I  should  fret  my  liver  rotten 
about  it?  Not  me.  I'd  say,  'Then  go  to  him.  You 
can  live  your  life  but  once,  and  there 's  none  of  the  glory 
of  being  men  and  women  in  heaven,  by  all  accounts.  So 
go  to  him — and  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do. '  What  sane  man 
would  keep  a  woman  in  his  house  who  pined  to  be  out  of 
it?  What  self-respecting  female  would  stop  in  a  man's 
home  after  she  knew  he  was  sick  of  the  sight  of  her  ? ' ' 

' '  You  owe  your  neighbours  something,  I  should  hope, ' ' 
said  Mr.  Twigg.  "A  good  example  we've  a  right  to 
expect  from  every  respectable  member  of  the  commu- 
nity." 

"Be  I  going  to  live  a  lie  to  keep  my  neighbours  calm, 
do  'e  think?  Not  I — nor  any  sensible  man.  She  was 
right  to  go  with  the  carpenter.  She'd  have  been  a  weak- 
minded  fool  to  stop;  and  the  hedge-tacker — a  worm,  not 
a  man,  I  call  him — he  shows  she  was  right  and  wise  to 


90  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

leave  him;  for  ever  since' she  went  he's  spent  his  time 
whining  in  the  public-houses  and  letting  anybody  stand 
him  drinks  because  of  his  terrible  misfortune." 

"So  would  you  whine  if  you'd  been  left  desolate  with 
an  old  blind  mother-in-law  and  a  barrow-load  of  little 
sticky  children/'  said  Mr.  Culme.  "  'Tis  very  well  for 
the  likes  of  you,  with  no  family,  to  say  these  godless 
things,  my  dear  man;  but  what  about  the  young  left 
without  a  mother  to  look  after  'em  ? ' ' 

Ouldsbroom  did  not  answer  immediately,  but  looked 
at  the  hunchback  with  a  sort  of  sulky  frown  in  his  blue 
eyes. 

All  roads  seemed  to  end  in  the  same  barren  wilderness ; 
all  discussions  appeared  sooner  or  later  to  drift  upon  this 
misfortune. 

"One  or  other  of  you  fools  be  always  ramming  that 
down  my  throat,"  he  said.  "Ban't  I  often  enough  put 
in  mind  of  it  without  hearing  you  babble  it?  Don't  every 
little  one  I  pass  in  the  road  remind  me?  'Tis  very  in- 
decent in  you  to  say  any  such  thing,  Peter  Culme,  and 
I  '11  thank  you  not  to  do  it  no  more,  for  I  won 't  stand  it. ' ' 

Miss  Hext  endeavoured  to  still  the  farmer 's  annoyance. 

"Be  sure  no  living  man,  nor  yet  woman,  would  seek 
to  fret  you  there,"  she  said.  "We  all  know  what  you 
are  with  the  children — and  none  better  than  me,  that 
sell  toys  and  lollipops.  Peter  here  never  meant  to  anger 
you." 

"Certainly  not.  Why  should  I?"  asked  the  water- 
keeper. 

"These  things  be  inside  the  law,  and  there  are  men  in 
the  world  who  understand  'em  as  well  as  we  understand 
our  affairs,"  continued  Barbara.  "I  was  a  yery  great 
reader  when  I  lived  in  London,  and  I  took  everything 
that  came  and  knew  a  lot  then,  though  I've  forgotten 
most  of  it  since.  But  there's  qualities  be  handed  from 
father  to  son,  besides  the  likeness  of  face  or  shape  of 
shoulders.  One  man  will  hand  on  a  weakness  and  another 
hand  on  a  strength.     So  it  comes  out  with  you,  Philip." 

"My  father  was  strong  as  a  bear;  and  so  be  I." 

"But  he  never  got  but  one  child,  for  all  his  strength. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  91 

He  wasn  't  a  fertile  man ;  and  he  was  only  one  of  two,  for 
I  've  heard  you  say  so. ' ' 

"Weren't  his  fault  about  children,"  answered  Philip. 
"He  married  late  in  life,  and  my  mother  was  get- 
ting up  in  years  too.  She  was  over  forty  when  I  was 
born." 

They  argued  upon  Barbara's  scanty  knowledge  until 
Ouldsbroom  stopped  them. 

"I  won't  hear  another  damned  word  on  the  subject!" 
he  cried.  ' '  And  if  any  man  wants  to  quarrel  with  me  let 
him  name  it." 

"  'Twill  be  time  enough  to  pull  a  long  face  when 
you've  been  married  ten  year  instead  of  two,"  summed 
up  Miss  Hext. 

But  from  that  hour  the  report  was  spread  that  Philip 
and  Unity,  for  lack  of  family,  were  not  all  that  they 
should  be  to  each  other.  Indeed  lying  rumour  magnified 
the  matter  into  an  actual  rift. 

With  passage  of  time  a  shadow  truth  might  have  been 
allowed  to  the  story.  There  was  no  actual  dissension, 
but  the  failure  of  a  common  desire  existed,  and  both 
felt  it.  Had  one  alone  done  so,  the  other  might  have 
helped  to  heal  the  want;  but  husband  and  wife  alike 
wished  for  offspring  with  intense  fervour.  Life  ran  ex- 
ceedingly smoothly,  and  nothing  happened  to  distract 
them  from  this  ceaseless  hope.  It  was  the  master-wish  of 
each  mind,  and  while  the  woman 's  larger  reason  and  con- 
trol fought  with  her  disappointment,  the  man's  feebler 
nature  failed  effectually  to  do  so.  Had  he  been  more 
rational.  Unity  would  have  respected  him  and  sought  to 
emulate  his  common  sense  before  a  circumstance  beyond 
their  own  control;  but  since  he  permitted  himself  large, 
vain  regrets,  she  smarted  too — at  first  openly ;  then,  when 
he  spoke  harshly  to  her  and  flung  the  blame  upon  her, 
she  brooded  in  secret. 

Once  she  spoke  to  Bird  wood  on  the  subject. 

"He  seems  to  think,  poor  dear  chap,  that  all  the  dis- 
appointment and  hardship  of  it  be  on  his  shoulders.  He 
may  grumble  so  much  as  he  pleases;  but  I  mayn't.  He 
catched  me  in  a  weak  moment  fretting  about  it  when  I 


92  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

thought  he  was  long  ways  off;  and  he  dressed  me  down 
proper,  I  promise  you. ' ' 

"It  beats  me,"  answered  the  man,  "why  a  pair  of  sane 
creatures  can  mourn  for  that.  Look  round  and  see  what 
the  children  are  worth — thorns — thorns  I  should  call  'em. 
If  you  'd  married  me,  you  might  have  had  so  many  as  you 
wanted,  and  more ;  but  'twould  have  been  no  pleasure  to 
me  to  have  'em.    I  can  swear  to  that. ' ' 

She  considered  his  words  at  the  time  and  remembered 
them  afterwards. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Mr.  Twigg's  hostelry  was  isolated,  but  since  it  stood  upon 
the  main  thoroughfare  of  Dartmoor,  he  enjoyed  a  fair 
share  of  custom. 

The  'Warren  House'  occupied  high  ground  at  the  limit 
of  the  Eastern  Quarter  of  the  Forest,  and  formed  a  good 
centre  for  the  manifold  industries  of  Gregory.  But  he 
had  few  friends,  and  his  bar-parlour  was  not  frequented. 
Upon  the  roadside  custom  he  principally  depended,  be- 
cause local  men  went  only  for  drink,  and  not  for  com- 
pany, to  the  'Warren  House.'  They  wearied  of  the  host, 
whose  sole  interests  were  centred  in  himself,  and  who 
had  little  leisure  or  sympathy  for  the  temporal  affairs 
of  lesser  men.  He  would  preach  for  the  pleasure  of  it  at 
an  instant's  notice,  but  his  vanity  kept  him  within  the 
band  of  his  own  religious  associates;  and  even  some  of 
them  stayed  away  from  chapel  when  it  was  known  that 
Brother  Twigg  would  conduct  service. 

Behind  his  bar  Gregory  was  always  didactic  and  su- 
perior. He  could  not  help  giving  advice  and  he  could  not 
help  drawing  a  moral — generally  from  his  own  achieve- 
ments and  victories. 

Ouldsbroom  liked  him  little,  but  as  Moor-man  of  the 
district,  Mr.  Twigg  had  dealings  with  all  the  local  farm- 
ers, and  sometimes  it  happened  that  Philip  could  not 
conduct  business  through  a  messenger  and  was  eon- 
strained  to  go  in  person. 

Towards  Christmas  duty  took  him  to  the  'Warren 
House, '  and  after  his  business  was  settled  he  spoke  awhile 
to  Gregory  and,  at  his  invitation,  drank  a  glass  or  two 
of  sloe  gin. 

93 


94  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

' '  My  own  brewing  that, ' '  explained  Mr.  Twigg.  ' '  You 
can't  get  such  a  liquor  outside  these  doors.  I've  arrived 
at  it  after  years  of  experiments.  The  fox-hunters  never 
pass  here  but  they  draw  up  and  cry  out  for  it.  I  'm  told 
I  could  get  fifty  pounds  in  London  for  the  recipe,  and  no 
doubt  I  could. ' ' 

"Very  pretty  drinking.  And  what's  this  I  hear  about 
Henry  Birdwood?  Haven't  seen  him  lately  to  ax  him 
myself.  But  you  might  know.  Is  he  going  back  to  your 
prayer-shop  again?" 

''He's  coming  back  to  the  footstool  of  the  Throne  of 
Grace  again,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"I  can't  believe  it — not  after  all  I've  taught  him  about 
being  a  free  man  and  to  keep  clear  of  you  psalm-smiters. 
How  d'you  know  'tis  true,  Twigg?" 

' '  We,  who  stand  a  little  closer  to  our  Lord  and  Saviour 
than  the  rank  and  file  of  people,  often  get  first  news  of 
such  things,"  answered  Mr.  Twigg.  "Of  course  a  god- 
less man,  like  you,  wouldn't  understand  that,  and  I 
wouldn  't  try  to  explain  it ;  but  I  know  'tis  true,  which  is 
all  that  matters.  He's  coming  back  into  Christianity; 
but  whether  'tis  to  church  or  to  us,  I  can't  quite  tell  you. 
To  us,  I  should  hope." 

"To  church  if  anywhere.  And  I'll  bet  you  half  a 
dozen  bottles  of  beer  on  it  that  'tis  my  wife  have  done 
this !  She 's  so  steady  as  a  rock  for  church  ever  since  she 
was  married  in  it.  And  if  you  must  go  anywhere,  'tis 
better  there  than  to  your  show,  where  any  fool  can  get  up 
and  make  a  row  if  he  wants  to. ' ' 

"How  little  you  know,  Ouldsbroom!  Many  religious 
men  would  be  very  angry  with  you  for  taking  the  name 
of  the  chosen  in  vain." 

"Bosh!  But  if  you  want  Birdwood,  I  dare  say  there's 
a  way.  Money's  money.  Tell  him  that  if  he  comes  back 
to  you,  'twill  be  good  for  half-a-crown  a  week  more,  and 
very  like  he'd  come." 

"Not  at  all — not  at  all.  Where's  your  manners  even 
to  suggest  such  a  thing?  Can  we  buy  souls  with  money? 
I  hope  Henry  will  give  me  a  chance  to  have  a  few  words, 
because  women  don't  understand,  and  never  will.    They 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  95 

mix  up  stained-glass  windows  and  the  organs  going,  and 
boys  singing,  and  the  rich  cloth  on  the  table,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it  with  religion,  and  think  because  these  things  ex- 
cite 'em  that  the  Lord  is  near.    But  if  you  ask  me " 

He  was  interrupted  by  Henry  Birdwood  himself.  The 
shepherd  had  walked  over,  and  now  called  for  beer  before 
he  opened  his  business. 

"You  was  the  man  in  our  mouths,  neighbour,"  said 
Mr.  Twigg,  drawing  half  a  pint.  "There's  a  little  bird 
have  told  me  that  you  may  be  seen  among  Christian  men 
again  afore  very  long,  and  I'm  terrible  glad  to  think  'tis 
true.  I  heard  the  story  a  good  bit  ago,  and  have  been 
hoping  for  six  weeks  that  any  Sunday  might  see  you  in 
your  old  place." 

"Never,  Mr.  Twigg,"  said  Henry  firmly.  "I've  no 
grudge  against  the  chapel,  but — well,  if  I  go  back,  'twill 
be  to  the  church." 

"And  why,  if  I  may  ask?"  inquired  the  publican. 
"I'm  sure  your  poor  father  would  feel  'twas  a  cruel, 
left-handed  answer  to  his  prayers,  if  you  did  that. 
What 's  the  reason  ? ' ' 

"I've  bet  Gregory  six  bottles  of  beer  that  the  reason 
is  my  wife,"  declared  Philip. 

Birdwood  laughed. 

"Well,  if  he  took  the  bet,  you've  won,"  he  answered. 
' '  She 's  death  on  my  going  back,  and  I  'd  do  anything  in 
reason  for  her." 

Philip  crowed,  and  Mr.  Twigg  shook  his  head. 

"You've  a  lot  to  answer  for,  Ouldsbroom.  This  is  all 
your  bad  work.  First  you  take  Sister  Unity  away,  and 
now,  through  her,  this  man." 

"I  took  myself  away,"  said  Birdwood.  "Everybody 
knows  that." 

"You  think  you  did,  but  farmer  here  was  at  the  root 
of  it.  None  can  deny  me  when  I  say  so.  'Tis  a  shocking 
thing,  because  Ouldsbroom  is  nought  himself  and  worse 
than  nought.  It  might  be  forgiven  if  he  was  a  deep 
believer.  But  look  at  him— he  don't  believe  in  nothing 
but  the  strength  of  his  own  evil  nature." 

The  farmer  spoke. 


96  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

''I  told  him  you'd  come  back  like  a  lamb  if  he  put  a 
bit  on  your  wages,  Henry ;  but  when  I  said  that,  Twigg 
was  off.  He'd  rather  part  from  you  than  another  half- 
crown  a  week ;  wouldn  't  you,  Gregory  ? ' ' 

"I  wish  I  could  learn  you  manners,  neighbour,"  an- 
swered the  other.  ' '  To  say  things  like  this  before  a  man 
and  his  master  is  most  improper ;  but  you'll  never  under- 
stand— never.  Your  education  was  neglected,  shocking, 
Philip." 

"Yes — thank  the  Lord,  if  you're  a  sample  of  schooling. 
And  now  give  me  a  thimbleful  more  of  thicky  sloe  gin 
and  I  '11  be  going. ' ' 

"  'Tis  funny  you  should  be  talking  about  my  wages," 
said  Birdwood.  "You  needn't  haste,  Ouldsbroom;  I've 
got  no  secrets  from  you;  but  that's  the  very  matter  I'm 
here  about.  I  've  had  an  offer  for  after  Christmas.  'Twill 
take  me  to  Chagford,  and  I  should  be  cruel  sorry  to  go ; 
but  there's  a  bit  more  to  it,  and  I'm  thinking  seriously 
upon  the  subject.  I'm  not  like  Sleep — always  going  to 
make  a  change  and  never  doing  it.  The  people  came  to 
me — not  me  to  them.  And  they're  very  good  people, 
too,  though  I  can't  mention  no  names,  being  forbid  to  do 
so  for  the  present." 

Mr.  Twigg  was  much  annoyed.  Indeed,  his  indigna- 
tion flushed  him  to  his  bald  forehead. 

' '  This  is  most  outrageous,  and  I  refuse  to  hear  of  it, ' ' 
he  said.  "You  ought  to  know  me  better,  Henry,  and 
yourself  too.    Whatever  is  coming  to  the  young  men  1 ' ' 

"Sense,"  declared  Philip.  "The  world's  waking  up. 
Henry 's  worth  what  he  '11  fetch ;  and  if  he  can  fetch  half- 
a-crown  more  than  you'll  pay — good-bye  to  you.  That's 
demand  and  supply,  that  is. ' ' 

"It's  nothing  of  the  kind:  it's  a  piece  of  very  un- 
christian ingratitude,"  answered  Mr.  Twigg.  "How- 
ever, me  and  Henry  will  talk  about  that.  'Tis  no  busi- 
ness of  yours,  I  believe. ' ' 

' '  You  Little  Baptists ! ' '  retorted  Ouldsbroom.  ' '  You  'm 
like  shell-snails  sailing  along  with  your  heads  in  the  air 
until  somebody  asks  for  a  bit  of  cash.  Then  down  come 
your  horns,  and  you  shrivel  up  and  shrink  into  your 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  97 

houses,  as  if  the  devil  and  all  his  ducks  was  after 
you." 

He  left  the  bar,  laughing  loudly  at  his  own  joke. 

He  had  not  gone  far,  however,  before  Henry  Birdwood 
also  emerged  and  ran  down  the  hill  after  him. 

Ouldsbroom,  on  hearing  himself  called,  turned  and 
waited  for  the  other. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "You  wasn't  long  coming  to  the 
bargain. ' ' 

"No.  Greg  saw  I  meant  business  from  the  first.  He 
knows  very  well  that  I  ought  to  have  more.  He  wanted 
to  make  it  a  condition  I  went  back  to  chapel ;  but  I 
wouldn't.     I've  done  with  them." 

' '  That 's  brave  hearing !  And  presently,  you  screv/  him 
up  a  bit  higher  yet. ' ' 

"I'm  not  anxious  to  work  for  him,  and  if  'twasn't  for 
you,  I'd  so  soon  be  down  to  Chagford  as  not." 

Philip 's  heart  warmed  instantly. 

"I  won't  have  you  go,"  he  said.  "You're  the  right 
sort,  and  I  think  a  lot  of  you,  and  I  '11  be  some  real  use  to 
you  some  day — see  if  I  won't.  Me  and  my  wife  are  very 
fond  of  you,  and  'tis  a  lonely  house  at  Hartland  along 
of  no  family,  so  we  can't  afford  to  lose  a  friend." 

"There's  her  people  at  Stannon. " 

"Yes;  but  I've  no  use  for  'em.  They  wouldn't  even 
let  me  stand  gossip  to  the  new  babby.  A  proper,  li  '1,  fat, 
chubby  boy  they've  got,  and  always  wants  for  to  come  to 
me,  young  though  he  is.  They  know  somehow — the 
toads — that  I'm  that  set  upon  'em." 

Birdwood  said  nothing,  and  Philip  followed  his  own 
thoughts  for  a  while.  He  preferred  to  speak  than  think, 
however,  and  presently  broke  into  further  words.  There 
were  links  missing  in  his  train  of  ideas,  but  Birdwood 
found  no  difficulty  in  appreciating  them.  Indeed,  he 
knew  all  that  was  passing  in  the  other's  mind  at  this  sea- 
son, for  Ouldsbroom 's  wife  hid  few  secrets  from  him. 

"Of  course  as  a  man  I  can  stand  it  with  a  man's 
strength.  I  've  my  work  and  my  plans — though  work  and 
plans  be  unfinished  things  if  there's  nought  to  work  and 
plan  for.    But  I've  got  Unity  too,  and  I  dare  say,  even 


98  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

if  we  did  have  the  rare  fortune  to  get  childer  after  all, 
they'd  never  be  to  me  what  she  is.  When  I  balance  the 
thought  of  a  son  against  her,  'tis  queer  how  my  mind 
jumps  for  a  moment,  but  I  always  come  back  to  her  and 
put  her  first." 

"If  even  the  thought  of  a  child  makes  you  hesitate, 
perhaps,  when  you  do  get  one,  you'll  find  it's  more  than 
anything  in  the  world — even  her. ' ' 

"No,  I  can't  think  that.  The  mother  of  any  child  of 
mine  would  be  pretty  nearly  as  much — quite  as  much,  I 
do  think — as  the  child.  What  I  was  saying  is  that  as  a 
man,  and  a  pretty  tough  sort  of  man,  I  can  face  the  dis- 
appointment; but  I'm  very  sorry  for  her.  She's  awful 
cut  up  about  it  sometimes — for  her  own  sake  as  much 
as  mine.  My  life's  full;  but  no  married  woman's  life 
be  full  without  children. ' ' 

"A  lot  don't  think  so,  however." 

"Then  they  ban't  women — only  forked  radishes.  Let 
that  flat-footed,  hard-lipped  sort  herd  together,  and  go 
out  like  tallow  candles  and  leave  nought  behind.  Unity 's 
very  different  from  that.  Look  at  her — '  mother '  stamped 
all  over  her.    She  'd  sell  her  soul  for  a  brave  boy. ' ' 

"I  can't  understand  such  a  fancy.  I  don't  like  chil- 
dren, and  never  did." 

' '  So  much  the  worse  for  you.  But  'tis  ignorance,  not 
vice  makes  you  say  it.  'Twould  be  wickedness  to  mean 
such  a  thing.    Wait  till  you  are  suited  with  a  maiden." 

"No  more  maidens  for  me.  A  good  old  salted  widow 
some  day — but  not  till  I'm  turned  of  fifty,  I  mean  to 
be  free  till  then, ' '  declared  Birdwood. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  trees  of  Postbridge  stand  in  parallel  rows — straight 
and  crooked,  slim  and  stout.  They  are  beeches  for  the 
most  part;  and  now  their  foliage  flew  to  join  the  crisp 
and  copper-coloured  masses  gathering  in  water-tables  and 
the  hollows  of  the  fields.  They  seemed  a  part  of  the  life 
and  the  business  of  the  place.  Together  with  the  river, 
the  famous  '  cyclopean '  bridge  that  spanned  it,  and  other 
inanimate  things,  the  trees  made  a  topic  for  the  people 
and  a  plaything  for  the  children.  Their  budding,  fruit- 
ing, and  fall  were  a  matter  of  conversation  as  regular  as 
the  weather;  and  with  autumn  the  harvest  of  them  was 
a  joy  to  the  young,  who  gathered  the  brown,  triangular 
nuts  from  road  and  meadows.  The  mast  spattered  the 
highway  in  November  and  covered  it  with  white  spots 
where  wheels  had  crushed  the  kernels.  This  scattered 
food  chaffinches  and  other  small  birds  devoured. 

Night  crept  among  the  trees  and  rain  drifted  through 
their  ranks  as  the  folk  emerged  from  church.  The  ser- 
vice was  held  after  noon,  but  the  evenings  were  grown 
so  short  that  darkness  spread  over  all  things  before  the 
people  left  their  place  of  worship.  A  stranger  would 
have  been  concerned  for  her  attire ;  but  rain  to  the  na- 
tives was  a  matter  so  familiar  that  women  only  put  up 
their  umbrellas  for  the  sake  of  their  bonnets. 

Unity  Ouldsbroom,  however,  found  an  umbrella  held 
over  her,  and  it  was  her  first  love,  Henry  Birdwood,  who 
did  this  service. 

He  was  laughing  at  the  mild  sensation  his  advent 
caused,  for  in  the  little  congregation  of  thirty  souls  he 
had  appeared  as  a  conspicuous  figure. 

99 


100  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

"Funny  to  see  'em  gaping,"  he  said.  "I  felt  a  feeling 
that  I  should  have  liked  to  say  the  truth  out  loud  to  'em 
and  let  'em  all  know  that  I  wasn't  there  for  praying,  but 
a  better  reason — just  to  walk  back  as  far  as  your  gate 
along  with  you  of  a  Sunday  night!" 

"I  can't  believe  it  of  you.  'Tis  the  sort  of  silly  thing 
as  my  husband  might  do — not  you." 

They  talked  of  Unity  as  they  went  through  the  trees, 
with  the  rain  in  their  faces,  to  Hartland. 

' '  You  know  all  about  me, ' '  she  said.  ' '  What  for  d  'you 
want  to  go  over  the  ground  so  oft?" 

"Because  I  don't  know  all  about  you.  You  seem  all 
right — to  the  eyes  of  other  people.  They  all  say  you're 
a  marvel,  and  have  trained  up  that  man  like  a  mother, 
and  brought  him  to  be  twice  the  man  he  was.  They  say 
that's  been  your  life's  work  these  two  years  and  more, 
and  that  you're  a  happy  woman  because  your  work's  a 
success.  But  I  tell  them  about  the  man  and  his  shoe. 
'Twas  a  very  tidy  shoe  and  looked  all  that  it  should  be 
in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbours;  but  the  person  that  wore 
it  knowed  where  it  pinched — and  only  him. ' ' 

"I'm  tired  of  that." 

* '  Are  you  going  to  ax  me  to  stop  to  supper  to-night  ? ' ' 

"No.  My  husband's  got  a  friend  here.  He  wanted 
you  to  come,  but  Mr.  Knowles  isn't  your  sort,  so  I  don't 
ask  you." 

"Philip  hit  a  man  down  yesterday,  I  hear,  for  saying 
something  about  no  children. ' ' 

"Can't  the  people  see  that,  whether  or  no,  he's  a  child 
himself?" 

"That's  true.  One  child  you've  got  anyway,  and 
he's  a  handful  too,  I'll  swear,  for  all  you  seem  to  manage 
him  so  easy. ' ' 

* '  A  child  sure  enough  in  many  things. ' ' 

"I  wish  I'd  known  more  about  him  two  years  agone, 
when  he  went  over  me  like  a  regiment  of  cavalry  and 
left  me  dumb  and  dazed  and  weak  as  water.  Knowing 
all  I  know  now,  and  feeling  all  I  feel,  I  can't  hardly  be- 
lieve that  'twas  this  man  flung  me  out  of  his  way.  'A 
man'  I  call  him,  but  he's  a  boy  all  through     Sport — fish 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  101 

• — birds — childish  things — always.  All  toys  and  to- 
morrows. Everything  be  going  to  happen  to-morrow. 
To-day's  never  of  no  account  with  him.  We  may  drink, 
or  sport,  or  waste  any  amount  of  time  to-day;  but  to- 
morrow we  be  going  to  do  man's  work.  I  could  be  sorry 
for  the  fool,  if  I  didn't " 

''Stop  that  now.  I  won't  have  it,  Henry.  What's 
the  sense  to  waste  words  so?  Surely,  between  you  and 
me,  we've  got  beyond  that?" 

"You're  one  of  the  rare  sort  that  can  live  without 
looking  back, ' '  he  answered.    ' '  I  haven 't  reached  so  far. ' ' 

''Learn  from  Philip,  then,  for  all  you  despise  him. 
To-morrow's  better  than  yesterday  anyway." 

' '  It  shall  be ;  if  you  leave  your  to-morrows  to  me. ' ' 

"As  to  that,  you  have  enough  of  my  time,  I  should 
think." 

They  were  at  Hartland  gate,  and  they  stood  beyond 
the  radius  of  a  sheaf  of  light  that  fell  across  the  yard 
from  the  parlour  window. 

Voices  came  from  within,  for  the  window  was  open. 

"Ponies  again  I  suppose?"  whispered  Henry  to  Mrs. 
Ouldsbroom. 

"Yes,  ponies.  Phil  be  going  to  make  everybody's 
fortune. ' ' 

"A  terrible  kind  chap;  but  the  sort  that  mars  more 
fortunes  than  he  makes. ' ' 

' '  With  his  own  thrown  in. ' ' 

"Might  have  been  so;  not  now.  Hasn't  he  got  two 
clever  people  on  his  side?" 

' '  He 's  got  me — who  else  ? ' ' 

"And  me  too.  Should  you  and  me  be  such  friends 
if  it  wasn't  so?" 

"What  a  word-shuffler  you  are !  I  hate  it  in  you.  Keep 
that  sort  of  stuff  for  other  people.     'Tis  no  use  to  me." 

"I  get  that  way  of  looking  at  things  through  my 
father.  Preachers  have  to  make  words  do  all  they  can  do. 
You  can  prove  anything  with  words.  You  can  bend  'em 
to  any  pattern,  if  you  master  them.  I  make  words  say 
I'm  the  true  friend  of  Philip  Ouldsbroom.  And  for  that 
matter,  who  can  say  I  ban't?" 


102  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

''You're  a  mocking  devil,  and  I  ought  to  hate  you  if 
I  was  a  wise  woman.  My  husband's  a  wholesome  crea- 
ture, if  he  is  tasteless ;  but  you — you  're  sauce  and  poison 
both." 

"Sauce  to  your  life,  anyway;  and  you  know  it.  'Tis 
the  least  I  can  be  since  you  're  the  breath  of  mine.  Hark ! 
There's  your  cowman  coming.    I'll  be  gone." 

The  sound  of  feet  lumbering  up  the  lane  struck  Bird- 
wood's  quick  ear.  He  kissed  her  and  vanished  to  the 
Moor. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Miss  Hext  found  it  difficult  to  make  her  customers 
understand  that  at  a  certain  hour  her  shop  closed.  Shut- 
ters she  had  none;  but  when  four  green  blinds  were 
drawn,  the  fact  was  supposed  to  indicate  that  business 
had  ceased  for  the  day.  The  folk,  however,  ignored  this 
hint ;  and  since  many  of  her  customers  lived  at  great  dis- 
tances and  were  only  able  to  visit  her  after  their  work 
was  finished,  she  often  declared  that  in  truth  her  general 
shop  never  shut  its  doors.  During  the  long  summer 
evenings  the  futility  of  attempting  to  stop  work  was  spe- 
cially apparent,   and   the  bell   often  jangled   till   nine 

0  'clock. 

It  was  not  far  short  of  this  hour  when  Henry  Bird- 
wood  called  for  some  articles  of  grocery  on  a  night  in 
early  July.    Barbara  protested  while  she  served  him. 

''You  selfish  men  will  work  me  into  my  grave,"  she 
said. 

''Not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  answered.  "You  know  you're 
coining  money.    You  ought  to  start  a  shop  assistant." 

"Don't  tell  me  that.  'Twill  be  so,  no  doubt — worse 
luck.  It  must  come.  But  not  an  hour  before  I  can  help 
it.  My  heart  sinks  when  I  think  of  having  to  teach  a 
young  creature  what  this  shop  means.  I  was  talking  to 
my  dog  last  night.  'You  don't  get  no  younger,  "Sarah,"  ' 

1  said;  for  in  truth  she's  getting  older,  and  that  very 
fast.  And  she  sat  there,  and  I  seemed  to  fancy  an 
answer  in  her  eyes — as  much  as  to  say,  '  No  more  do  you, 
Barbara  Hext.'  But  an  assistant  is  a  frosty  thought. 
I'm  not  sure  if  I  wouldn't  rather  give  up  and  sell  the 
shop." 

"I  dare  say  there's  a  good  few  would  be  very  ready 
to  take  it  off  your  hands. ' ' 

103 


104  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

''Not  a  doubt  of  it." 

He  was  preparing  to  leave,  but  the  hunchback,  Peter 
Culme,  came  in,  and  Birdwood  stopped  a  little  longer. 

Miss  Hext  grumbled  and  lighted  another  lamp,  for 
Peter's  order  demanded  search  in  a  dark  corner. 

' '  Just  gave  Philip  Ouldsbroom  '  good-night, '  "  he  said. 
"He's  in  a  merry  mood  seemingly,  and  more  than  fresh, 
by  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Was  up  at '  Warren  House '  on 
his  pony,  telling  very  loud  to  half  a  dozen  men — some- 
thing about  his  fine  wife,  I  think  'twas — but  I  didn't 
stop.  He  just  shouted  out  '  Good  luck ! '  after  me,  in  the 
cheerful  sort  o'  way  men  do  when  they've  had  good  luck 
themselves  and  feel  large-hearted." 

"Large-hearted  always,  he  is,"  declared  Miss  Hext. 
"Never  was  such  another." 

"  'Tis  funny  to  hear  the  fool  sometimes,  all  the  same," 
replied  Birdwood.  "We  be  very  good  friends  now,  as 
everybody  knows;  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  help 
laughing  to  hear  him  bragging  how  he  took  his  wife  for 
her  sense  and  wisdom. ' ' 

"A  left-handed  sort  of  laugh  from  you,  I  should 
think,"  said  Mr.  Culme,  "seeing  how  he  served  you." 

"No;  that's  very  near  three  year  old.  I'm  not  think- 
ing of  that.  But  to  hear  him  tell  how  he  took  her  for  her 
sense,  when  all  the  world  knows  she  took  him  for  his 
farm ' ' 

"She's  the  sort  to  keep  at  the  helm  of  her  own  life 
and  let  none  other  steer  her,"  asserted  Barbara.  "You 
can  see  that  in  her  mouth.  Rule  she  does ;  but  he  never 
feels  it.  He's  the  happier  for  it.  She's  a  clever  woman. 
I  won 't  deny  her  that,  though  I  don 't  like  her,  and  never 
did." 

Birdwood  regarded  the  post-mistress  curiously. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

' '  Why  should  I  ?  She 's  not  my  sort.  But  her  husband 
is.  There's  a  finer  nature  hid  in  him  than  she  can  feel 
or  guess  at.  But  there  'tis :  the  match  have  worked  very 
well,  and  long  may  it  last  so." 

"As  to  that,  she  married  him  for  his  farm,  you  say, 
Henry,"  argued  Mr.   Culme.     "Well,  if  you'm  right, 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  105 

there'll  come  failure  soon  or  late  seeing  to  marry  for 
goods  be  wrong." 

"Don't  you  think  it.  Unity's  a  pinch  too  clever  for 
failure.  She  never  takes  a  step  with  her  eyes  shut,  that 
woman.  She  ban't  the  sort  that  a  man  marries,  come 
to  think  of  it.  You  'd  say  of  her  she 's  the  sort  that  mar- 
ries a  man." 

"God  help  the  man  then,"  said  Peter. 

"Why,  so  He  has,"  answered  the  shepherd.  "Philip's 
got  better  luck  than  he  deserves — fool's  luck.  We  know 
the  truth  about  most  things  a  bit  too  late  to  be  any  use 
to  lis.  If  I'd  larned  the  truth  about  Ouldsbroom  when 
he  took  that  woman  away  from  me,  I'd  have  got  her 
back  in  time.    I  'm  cleverer  than  him. ' ' 

"He  thinks  that  you  are  his  best  friend,"  said  Bar- 
bara; "but  'tis  time  I  warned  him  against  you  again — 
as  I  did  before  he  was  married." 

"And  I  am  his  best  friend,  I  dare  say.  I've  given 
him  the  benefit  of  my  sense  more  than  once.  I  get  older ; 
he  don't.  He's  where  he  was  when  he  bested  me;  but 
I'm  not.  And  don't  you  think  to  turn  him  from  me, 
Miss  Hext;  because  you  won't  do  it.  He  knows  very 
well  that  you  don't  like  me." 

Birdwood  took  his  parcels  and  went  out.  He  had  not 
gone  far  when  Philip  himself  appeared,  coming  down 
Merripit  Hill. 

Ouldsbroom  was  mellow  and  did  not  recognize  Henry. 
But  he  shouted  'Good-night!'  Birdwood,  curious  to 
learn  the  matter  of  this  exaltation,  stopped,  and  the 
farmer,  at  sound  of  his  voice,  recognised  him. 

' '  There  now  !  Everything  goeth  right  to-day !  I  wag 
out  over  at  your  place  with  the  news  this  morning;  but 
you  were  to  work,  and  Sleep  couldn't  tell  where.  Then 
I  rode  into  Chagf ord  and  told  a  good  few  friends  there ; 
and  then  I  went  down  to  Moreton  and  told  'em  there; 
and  everybody's  that  pleased  about  it  that  what  with 
drinking  luck  and  one  thing 'n  'nother,  I've  got  a  skinful 
— I  've  got  a  skinful,  Henry. ' ' 

"And  what  is  the  luck?" 

"To  think  there's  anybody  don't  know  it,  and  you,  of 


106  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

all  men!  My  wife — she's  with  child,  my  lad!  'Tis 
beyond  doubt,  and  I've  been  shouting  the  news  to  the 
sheep  in  the  lonely  places!  Couldn't  keep  it  in — such 
a  fool  am  I ! " 

"That's  great  hearing  and  no  mistake!  Can  you  get 
home,  or  shall  I  go  beside  your  boss  ? ' ' 

"I'm  all  right.  Haven't  done  my  round  yet.  Be 
just  going  to  tell  Barbara ;  then  I  must  get  down  to  Two 
Bridges — to  Two  Bridges  you  know.  Masterman  and  his 
wife  at  the  'Ring  o'  Bells'  would  never  forgive  me  if  they 
heard  the  news  from  anybody  else.  And  'twill  be  over 
the  Moor  like  a  flame  of  fire  to-morrow ! ' ' 

"I'm  terrible  glad,  Philip;  and  I  hope  she's  pleased." 

"  'Pleased!'  Good  God!  Pleased  ban't  the  word — 
I  say  pleased  ban't  the  word.  She've  wanted  a  man  child 
ever  since  the  day  she  was  old  enough  to  bear  one.  And 
a  man  child  'twill  be.  'Tis  my  will!  I'll  take  no  denial 
of  it.  A  blessed  boy,  I  say;  and  he'll  be  born  next  Feb- 
ruary. Can't  stop  no  more,  Henry.  Come  over  and 
hear  all  I  be  going  to  do  for  the  child.  'Tis  all  marked 
out.    Good-night,  good-night!" 

He  trotted  off  and  arrived  presently  at  the  post  office. 
Mr.  Culme  had  gone ;  the  lights  were  out,  and  Barbara 
had  retired  to  her  kitchen.  But  the  horseman  soon 
summoned  her.  He  dismounted,  made  fast  his  steed  to 
the  ring  in  an  upping-stock  close  at  hand,  then  entered  as 
Miss  Hext  appeared. 

"Not  a  word,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  grumble  to  me, 
Barbara,  because  I  won't  have  it — I  won't  have  it,  I  tell 
you.  I  don't  want  nothing  out  of  the  shop.  I  only 
want  you.     Be  you  alone?" 

"I  should  think  so;  'tis  past  ten  o'clock." 

"You've  got  to  hear  me.  I  could  talk  for  an  hour, 
but  'tis  all  said  in  a  word.  Fetch  out  something  to  drink 
— your  medicine  bottle — you  know ;  there 's  a  dear ! ' ' 

"No,  I  shan't.  You've  had  enough.  I'm  ashamed 
of  you,  Phil." 

"Who  wouldn't  drink?  Not  a  stroke  of  work  will  I 
do  for  a  week  to  mark  it — not  a  stroke.  There's  a  lot 
to  be  thought  upon,  but  trust  me.     When  I  look  at  a 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  107 

child  now,  I  can  scarce  forbear  to  onlight  from  my  horse 
and  hug  it.  And  I  wouldn't  have  let  the  day  pass  with- 
out telling  you,  Barbara;  no,  I  wouldn't  have  let  the  day 
pass  without  telling  you — not  if  a  man  was  to  have 
heaped  up  my  hat  with  golden  sovereigns,  I  wouldn't 
have  done  so." 

"Sit  down,  or  you'll  fall  down,  you  silly  man.  What 
is  it  about  then?  I  suppose  you — that  be  always  doing 
people  a  good  turn — have  had  a  good  turn  done  to  you? 
And  then  you  get  so  surprised  at  it  that  you  must  needs 
take  too  much  liquor." 

''I  ban't  drunk,  or  if  I  be — I  say,  if  I  be,  'tis  with  joy 
of  it.  'Drunk  with  joy'  is  a  very  clever  word.  Yes,  a 
good  turn  has  been  done  to  me — a  very  good  turn  in- 
deed." 

"Well,  read  Job  and  steady  your  mind.  Who  can  tell 
what's  good  and  what's  bad?  The  thing  that  looks  good 
often " 

"Don't  you  say  that — I  won't  hear  it!  I  won't  hear 
it,  I  tell  you.  My  wife  be  gwaine  to  have  a  babby.  There 
'tis!" 

"That  woman  gets  everything  she  wants  sooner  or 
later." 

"And  so  do  I — so  do  I.  There's  nothing  like  making 
up  your  mind  as  you  will  have  a  thing.  I  would  marry 
her,  and  I  did.  And  all  along  I  said  I  would  have  a  son, 
and  I  shall.  I  'm  the  sort  of  man  that  makes  things  bend 
to  my  will,  Barbara.  I  won't  take  'no'  for  an  answer — 
like  some  weak  creatures." 

"She's  very  pleased  about  it,  of  course?  Well  she 
may  be.    A  wonderful  woman. ' ' 

"That  she  is.  She'd  open  the  eyes  of  the  blind,  she 
would.  I  say,  I  say  she'd  open  the  eyes  of  the  blind, 
Barbara.  I  ban't  easily  astonished,  but  she  astonishes 
me — yes,  still  she  does.  Never  interferes  with  me,  mind 
you.  'Man  be  master':  that's  her  saying,  and  a  good 
one.  I  tell  you  it's  a  good  one.  But  a  cleansing  terror 
in  the  house — oh,  my  stars! — a  whirlwind  of  cleanli- 
ness ! " 

"You'll  have  to  take  care  of  her  now,  Philip." 


108  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

"Aud  don't  I  always?  If  anybody  said  I  didn't,  I'd 
— I'd — —  But  I  will  be  obeyed  from  this  day  forward 
by  her.  I  won't  have  her  working  herself  dog-tired  six 
days  a  week  no  more.  I  '11  put  my  foot  down  there.  She 
shall  be  idle,  though  she  hates  idleness  worse  than  the 
devil.  I've  seen  her,  of  a  busy  morning,  kick  the  cat 
away  from  the  hearthstone  where  he  sat  sleeping.  'Get 
up,  you  caddling,  loafing  good-f or-nought ! '  she'll  say  to 
him.  'Go  about  your  business  and  catch  the  mice  and 
earn  your  keep ! '    That 's  Unity  Ouldsbroom  in  a  word. ' ' 

"A  rare  towser  for  work." 

"So  she  is;  and  yet  that  understanding  with  it,  Bar- 
bara— that  understanding,  I  tell  you.  She  knows  we 
males  have  a  bit  of  the  boy  in  us  always,  though  women 
soon  lose  the  girl  in  them.  I  must  fish  and  shoot  and  play 
with  the  childer — other  people's  childer  afore — my  own 
now — my  own  now.  She  knows  all  that;  she  never  says 
'no'  to  such  things,  like  some  vinegary  old  maids  might. 
She  understands  everything,  I  tell  you.  She's  never 
fretted  nor  troubled ;  and  she  never  shall  be  while  I  'm 
here.  But  of  course  now  she  must  do  what  she's  told, 
for  the  sake  of  the  unborn." 

"  I  'm  very  glad  of  this,  Philip.  'Tis  the  best  thing  that 
could  have  happened,  and  I  hope  you'll  take  it  in  a  wise 
spirit,  I'm  sure." 

' '  Wise !  Why,  if  a  man  at  my  age — ^three-and-f orty — 
coming  into  fatherhood,  can 't  be  wise,  'tis  a  disgrace ! 
There'll  be  plenty  of  sense  waiting  for  the  child  on  both 
sides,  if  I  know  anything.  I've  planned  it  out  a 'ready. 
And  he  shall  go  to  a  proper  school  presently,  if  I've  got 
to  starve  to  send  him.  And  I  'm  going  to  mark  this  good 
thing  somehow.  You'll  be  able  to  help  me  there.  I  want 
a  bit  of  rejoicing — d'ye  see?" 

' '  You  run  on  so !  Plenty  of  time  for  all  that  presently. 
Well,  I'm  right  glad,  and  I  hope  'twill  steady  you  down 
and  knock  sense  into  your  silly  head.  And  mind  you 
keep  the  child  away  from  the  Dissenters  when  it  does 
arrive. ' ' 

"No  fear  of  that!  My  throat's  a  lime-kiln  along  of  so 
much  speech.    And  noAv  I  'm  off  to  Two  Bridges.    Master- 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  109 

man  won't  grudge  me  a  drink — I  say  Masterman  won't 
grudge  me  a  drink,  though  you  do  seemingly ! ' ' 

She  spoke  to  him  for  a  further  five  minutes  and  per- 
suaded him  to  abandon  his  idea  and  return  home. 

''To  please  me,"  she  said.  "And  to  mark  the  day — 
don't  touch  no  more  to-night,  Phil.  Get  home  to  Unity 
and  tell  her  that  I  'm  very  glad  about  this,  I  'm  sure ;  and 
then,  if  you  can  see  straight  enough  to  do  it,  read  a  bit 
of  Job — chapter  twenty-eight.     'Twill  steady  you  down. ' ' 

"You'm  right,"  he  said.  "Come  to  think  of  it,  after 
this  news,  I  wonder  how  the  devil  I  could  keep  away  from 
her  all  day.  I'll  go  back  this  instant  moment — this  in- 
stant moment  I'll  go." 

' '  And  lead  your  horse ;  don 't  you  get  on  him. ' ' 

He  laughed. 

"No  call  to  be  frightened  for  me.  I'm  sober  as  the 
river,  and  my  hoss  can  carry  beer,  I  promise  you.  I  say 
he  can  carry  beer,  Miss  Hext.  Not  that  'tis  very  oft  I  ax 
him  to  do  it.  No  man's  ever  seen  me  drunk  twice  in  a 
year. ' ' 

She  watched  him  mount  and  go  off.  There  was  no 
night  at  this  season,  and  a  nimbus  of  pale,  colourless 
radiance  fringed  the  horizon  where  the  sun  stole  behind 
the  northern  hills. 

"Oh  for  the  power  to  give  that  fond  creature  a  pinch 
of  sense ! ' '  thought  Barbara. 

Suddenly  the  man  shouted  back  to  her. 

"I  say,  Barbara!  I'll  wager  my  boy  will  often  and 
often  come  to  you  for  sweeties,  so  soon  as  his  li  '1  legs  can 
steer  him  down  over  the  hill ! ' ' 

She  heard  him  laughing  until  his  voice  died  upon  the 
distance. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Philip  Ouldsbroom  was  striding  up  and  down  his 
kitchen,  like  a  lion  in  a  cage  at  feeding  time.  In  the 
window  sat  an  elderly  man,  who  smoked  a  pipe  and 
looked  uneasily  out  at  falling  snow. 

' '  I  hope  this  isn  't  going  to  get  worse,  farmer, ' '  he  said, 
"for  if  it  does,  how  shall  I  drive  back  to  Princetown?" 

But  the  other  did  not  answer.  His  interests  were  else- 
where. He  kept  looking  up  at  the  ceiling.  His  under 
jaw  was  thrust  forward  a  trifle  and  his  shoulders  were 
lifted.  His  hands  were  in  his  breeches  pockets,  and  from 
one  of  them  came  the  ceaseless  jingle  of  a  bunch  of  keys, 
where  he  fidgeted  with  it. 

"The  loaf-luck  was  right — right  to  a  hair,"  he  said. 
"Perhaps  you  don't  know  what  that  means,  doctor, 
but " 

A  woman  came  to  the  door. 

"Now,  if  you  please,  sir." 

The  grey  man  put  down  his  pipe  and  followed  her. 
Ouldsbroom  set  his  teeth  and  tramped  backwards  and 
forwards  faster  than  before.  The  strain  on  his  mind 
called  for  air.  He  felt  choking,  and  went  to  the  farm 
door  and  drew  in  great  gulps  of  the  snow-laden  north 
wind. 

A  boy  was  walking  a  horse  and  trap  up  and  down  in 
the  yard,  and  the  sight  of  him  offered  Philip  occupation. 
He  returned  to  the  house,  went  through  the  dairy, 
reached  the  larder,  cut  a  huge  lump  ofi'  a  currant  cake 
and  took  it  out. 

"Come  in  here  under  this  shippon,"  he  said.  "I'll 
fetch  a  cloth  for  the  boss.    He  ain't  hot." 

110 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  111 

These  things  occupied  but  a  few  minutes,  and  he  re- 
turned to  the  house  again. 

His  ordeal  was  not  a  long  one.  In  half  an  hour  a 
maiden,  who  ran  about  at  the  nurse's  beck  and  call, 
rushed  down  speedily  and  told  him  that  everything  was 
well. 

"A  boy — say  'tis  a  boy  or  I'll  brain  you!"  he  cried, 
catching  her  by  the  shoulder. 

"A  very  fine  boy — 'very  fine  boy'  was  the  doctor's 
words,  Mr.  Ouldsbroom." 

''Didn't  I  know  it?  Bring  him  down,  then!  How 
much  longer  be  I  to  wait  afore  I  see  my  son?" 

"A  longful  time  yet.  And  Dr.  Dickinson  says  that 
missis  is  as  right  as  ninepence ;  and  if  you  '11  get  away  out 
of  the  house  for  an  hour,  'tis  the  best  thing  that  you  can 
do — excuse  me  for  naming  it." 

"Of  course  'tis  all  right!  Didn't  I  see  it  in  the  loaf 
this  morning?  I'll  run  round  the  village  and  send  off  a 
postcard  or  two  and  be  back  afore  long.  And  make 
Doctor  bide  till  I  get  here  again.  Tell  him  the  snow  ban 't 
offering  serious  just  yet." 

He  took  his  hat  and  rushed  off. 

On  the  Moor  he  saw  two  men  in  the  distance,  quite  out 
of  earshot. 

' '  A  boy !    A  damn  fine  boy ! "  he  bawled  out  to  them. 

He  hastened  across  to  Stannon  first,  and  burst  in  upon 
Gertrude  Crymes  and  her  brood  of  three. 

"A  boy!"  he  said.  "A  proper  boy — the  daps  of  me, 
no  doubt,  though  I  haven't  seed  him  yet.  Come  here, 
Maggie,  and  you,  Jacky!  Let  'em  come,  Gertrude,  and 
hand  me  the  little  one.  A  proper  cousin  for  'e  all,  my 
darlings ! " 

"How's  Unity?"  asked  the  mother. 

"Why,  couldn't  be  better.  As  well  I  knowed  it  would 
be  with  her.  There's  a  penny  all  round  for  luck!  And 
Quinton  must  fetch  you  all  over  when  the  weather  gets 
soft.  Tell  him  all's  well  with  his  sister.  I  be  going  to 
send  off  a  halfpenny  card  to  Birdwood  now — and  a  few 
others  round  about.  There's  a  score  and  more  of  people 
will  be  terrible  glad  to  know  'tis  all  right. ' ' 


112  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

*'Mr.  Sleep  heard  from  Henry  yesterday.  His  father 
be  failing  slowly.  He  reckons  he'll  close  the  preacher's 
eyes  afore  a  month's  out." 

''That's  all  one,  since  it's  got  to  be.  Well,  you  come 
over  so  soon  as  you  can,  Gertrude,  that's  a  good  woman. 
And  give  it  tongue,  will  'e?  A  very  fine  boy — to  be 
named  after  me,  of  course." 

"  'Twill  make  a  confusion  if  you  do  that." 

But  Ouldsbroom  stayed  not  to  argue.  He  went  off, 
shouted  the  news  to  Mr.  Coaker,  who  was  at  work  in  an 
outhouse,  and  then  hastened  down  to  Postbridge. 

The  snow  had  ceased  for  the  time,  but  it  blew  very 
coldly,  and  the  wind  was  busy  with  a  bank  of  grey  that 
extended  on  the  northern  horizon. 

Philip  next  met  Ned  Sleep  returning  home  on  his  pony, 
and  told  him ;  but  long  before  Ned  grasped  the  great  fact 
his  informant  had  swept  forward. 

Miss  Hext  was  not  in  the  post  office  when  he  entered, 
but  he  picked  up  a  pen  and  shouted  loudly  to  her. 

"Barbara!   Barbara!  where  are  you  got  to ? " 

"  'Tis  all  right  then?"  she  asked,  appearing  from  her 
room  behind  the  shop.  "I  see  by  your  face  'tis  all 
right." 

"Of  course  it  is.  How  should  it  be  otherwise  with 
such  a  woman  as  Unity?  Everything  right,  and  I  be 
going  to  send  off  a  card  here  and  there  to  them  who  '11  be 
glad." 

He  dropped  the  pen  and  shook  her  hand  till  she  cried 
out  and  held  her  fingers. 

"  'Twas  all  right  from  the  minute  she  woke,  and  I 
rode  off  myself  and  come  back  with  Dr.  Dickinson.  He 
said  he'd  follow  after;  but  that  didn't  do  for  me;  so  I 
fetched  him  along  and  galloped  beside  him.  And  at 
breakfast,  if  I  didn't  break  the  loaf  in  so  true  a  horse- 
shoe as  ever  bread  fell  in !  You  laugh  with  all  your  town 
wisdom,  Barbara ;  but  I  '11  swear  there 's  a  lot  in  it !  And 
I  knowed  from  that  moment  'twould  all  be  right  and 
never  had  another  anxious  thought.  Did  'e  ever  hear 
them  verses  made  by  a  true  Dartymoor  man  back- 
along?" 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  113 

"No,  I  didn't.  I  blush  for  you — you  who  are  above  all 
this  nonsense  of  churches  and  chapels  both." 

"There's  things  that  be  above  either  of  'em.  There's 
the  evil  eye,  Barbara — you  won't  deny  that?" 

"I'd  so  soon  believe  in  witches." 

"But  the  rhyme  ban't  a  thing  to  flout — specially  if  it 
comes  true.  Luck  is  luck,  and  you  can't  say  you  don't 
believe  in  that,  because  the  world's  full  of  it — good  or 
bad.  And  if  one  sort  of  luck,  why  not  another?  Loaf- 
luck  be  a  real  thing,  for  all  you  scoff.    List  to  this." 

He  repeated  a  rhyme. 

"If  the  loaf  bought  on  the  morn 
When  the  little  child  is  born 
Happens  to  be  clove  in  two 
In  the  shape  of  a  horse-shoe, 
'Tis  a  sign  that  he  or  she 
All  through  life  will  lucky  be." 

Miss  Hext  laughed. 

"And  you  believe  that?  Well,  send  your  postcards 
and  get  off  back  to  Hartland." 

Ouldsbroom  dispatched  half  a  dozen  messages  and 
made  half  a  dozen  needless  purchases.  Then  suddenly 
the  thought  of  his  prolonged  absence  from  home  smote 
him  like  a  blow. 

"What  on  God's  earth  do  I  mean  by  it — caddling 
about  all  over  the  Moor,  and  me  a  father?  'Tis  shame- 
ful! All  the  same,  I  dare  say  I'll  see  you  again  come 
nightfall,  Barbara." 

He  made  haste  to  depart,  but  Miss  Hext  called  him 
back. 

' '  Here 's  my  present  for  baby, ' '  she  said,  and  gave  him 
a  little  decorated  box  of  fragrant  soap. 

He  brimmed  over  with  thanks. 

"You  good,  large-hearted  creature!  My  God,  there's 
nobody  like  you — nobody.  To  think  of  that  now !  Unity 
will  be  terrible  obliged — ay,  and  so  will  the  boy.  Mark 
me,  he'll  be  a  great  friend  of  yours  in  a  year  or  two. 
Good-bye,  good-bye ! ' ' 

In  half  an  hour  Philip  Ouldsbroom  held  the  newborn 


114  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

atom  in  his  arms,  and  devoured  its  tiny  head  with  his 
gaze. 

"He've  got  his  mother's  eyes,  I  see — ban't  blue  like 
mine,"  he  said. 

"A  brown  boy  he'll  be — all  his  mother's,"  answered 
the  midwife. 

Then  she  jumped,  for  the  man's  voice  exploded  like 
thunder  upon  her  ear. 

"Hell!  Don't  you  be  talking  that  stuff  to  me!"  he 
shouted.    "Mine,  mine,  mine!" 

He  went  to  see  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  child-hunger  in  Unity  Ouldsbroom  was  sated  when 
she  held  her  infant  to  her  breast.  She  grew  calm  swiftly, 
and  this  new  life  henceforth  dominated  every  other  in- 
terest that  her  own  life  possessed.  It  was  an  instan- 
taneous rather  than  a  gradual  change.  Her  husband 
best  withstood  the  impact  of  it ;  others  seemed  likely  to 
be  swept  aside,  as  of  an  interest,  not  ancillary  alone,  but 
in  future  quite  non-existent.  Philip,  however,  still  ap- 
peared to  her  as  neither  more  nor  less  than  himself.  He 
bulked  not  greater  and  not  smaller  seen  in  the  light  of 
her  motherhood.  But  her  relations  and  friends — Quin- 
ton  and  Gertrude  Crymes  and  their  children,  Henry 
Birdwood,  and  certain  women  of  Postbridge  who  had 
been  in  some  sort  her  intimates,  were  now  largely  dimin- 
ished in  her  eyes.  As  yet  they  did  not  know  it,  but  were 
destined  soon  to  do  so. 

She  went  upon  the  high  Moor  with  her  child  three 
months  after  it  was  born  and  walked  slowly  by  the  valley 
of  Dart  to  an  appointed  meeting-place. 

Her  husband  was  from  home,  about  the  business  of 
some  stock  at  Totnes,  and  he  would  not  return  until  the 
following  day.  Where  the  river  bends  back  to  the  west 
under  Broad  Down  she  found  a  little  familiar  holt  upon 
the  hillside.  Here  a  few  great  boulders  fell  together  and 
made  a  penthouse  against  rain  and  wind.  From  the 
mouth  of  it  the  valley  subtended  and  great  declivities 
rolled  round  about.  The  place  was  familiar  to  Unity, 
though  she  had  not  visited  it  for  many  months.  That 
she  was  expected  might  be  seen,  for  some  one  had  spread 
the  little  chamber  with  fresh  litter  of  fern. 

She  looked  into  a  cleft  in  the  stone  and  drew  forth  a 

115 


116  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

letter,  as  she  had  drawn  forth  many  another.     It  was 
brief : — 

"Expect  me  at  one  o'clock. — H.  B." 

She  sat  and  looked  ont  upon  the  spring  world,  fed  her 
child  and  waited.  Around  her  were  the  first  shy  buds  of 
May,  and  above  her  a  stormy  sky  broken  and  cleft  with 
sun  gleams.  The  more  usual  phenomenon  of  shadows 
upon  light  was  reversed,  and  splashes  of  brilliant  light 
roamed  instead  through  ambient  darkness.  In  gleaming 
patches,  like  great  golden  birds,  the  splendour  passed. 
It  flashed  in  the  river  valley,  climbed  the  hills,  winged 
onward  to  their  crests  and  ridges,  and  so  vanished  again. 
But  darkness  was  the  note  of  the  day ;  the  wind  brushed 
the  song  of  the  river  fitfully  upon  the  ear;  the  cleeves 
were  calling  to  the  rain. 

Birdwood  arrived  punctually,  and  greeted  her  not 
without  some  emotion.  They  had  not  met  since  the  death 
of  his  father  and  the  birth  of  her  son. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  "we've  both  been  through  a  bit 
since  winter.  I  thought  to  have  seen  you  long  ago,  but 
my  poor  old  man  took  two  months  a-dying.  It  steadied 
me  a  bit.  'Tis  a  teaching  thing  to  see  your  father  die. 
I  promised  him  that  I'd  go  back  to  Chapel,  Unity;  but 

here  am  I,  prattling  about  my  concerns  as  if And 

you — how  are  you  1    How  is  it  with  you  ? ' ' 

"So  right  as  ever  I  was — happy  too.  You  stare;  but 
I  am." 

' '  'Tis  quite  fair  you  should  be.  Childer  ban 't  much  to 
most  men — no  more  than  the  paring  of  my  nail  to  me; 
but  to  women  they  be  nine  months  out  of  her  life  every 
time,  and  the  heart's  blood  thrown  in." 

"All  that  and  more.  A  perfect  child — perfect — lovely 
— sweet  as  hoiiey — knows  me  a 'ready  and  laughs  at 
me." 

She  made  to  bare  the  baby's  face  for  him.  He  showed 
no  interest,  however,  and  she  desisted,  but  tightened  her 
arms  about  it  instead. 

"And  have  it  made  you  think  much,  Unity?  Have 
it  opened  your  eyes  here  and  there  ? ' ' 


THE   THIEi-   OF   VIRTUE  117 

"What  d'you  mean?"  she  asked.  "Of  course  I've 
thought.     That  was  sure  to  be." 

' '  Have  it  showed  you  where  I  conquered  him  that  said 
he  conquered  me  ?  Have  it  showed  you  that  I  was  strong- 
est after  all — in  mind  and  body  too?  In  body  too, 
Unity." 

"I  suppose  so." 

"You  know  so.  I'm  so  strong  that  I  don't  even  care 
to  show  him  how  strong  I  am.  So  long  as  you  see,  clear 
as  crystal,  that  I've  won  every  way  and  he's  lost  every 
way,  that 's  all  I  care  about. ' ' 

"If  you're  strong,  be  strong  always,  and  let  me  see 
how  strong  you  can  be." 

' '  You  cunning  creature !  But  I  see  through  you — even 
through  one  so  deep  as  you.  Yes,  strong  enough  and 
silent  enough  I'll  be — except  with  you.  I  must  have  a 
laugh  with  you  sometimes.  'Tis  funny  to  see  a  man 
think  he's  got  the  kernel  when  he's  only  got  the  shell.  A 
monkey  would  know  better  than  that — eh  ?  Poor  chap ! 
Well,  I've  got  all  I  want  of  you — he  can  have  the  rest." 

She  was  uneasy. 

"I  don't  like  you  to  be  so  terrible  bitter.  He's  been 
a  good  friend  to  you. ' ' 

"Yes,  and  I'm  quite  as  good  a  friend  to  him  as  ever 
he  was  to  me.  I  feel  just  as  friendly  to  him  as  he  did  to 
me  when  he  sloked  you  away  and  married  you  under  my 
calf 's  eyes.  Just  exactly  as  friendly  as  that.  The  friend- 
liness of  the  strong  to  the  weak.  Don't  think  I'm  not 
friendly  to  the  man.  I  wish  him  nought  but  good.  We  're 
a  regular  David  and  Jonathan  him  and  me." 

His  lips  sneered  and  hers  tightened.  She  looked  on 
into  the  future  and  saw  that  her  own  strength,  and  only 
her  own,  would  save  the  ultimate  situation.  She  glanced 
up  under  her  eyes  at  Birdwood,  but  not  with  love.  He 
might  be  stronger  than  Philip :  she  had  helped  him  to  be 
stronger  for  her  own  purposes.  But  he  was  not  stronger 
than  Philip 's  wife.  She  knew  that  neither  man  possessed 
her  tremendous  force  of  character,  subtle  swiftness  to 
win  personal  good  out  of  any  complication. 

' '  Let  me  look  at  him.    What 's  his  name  ? ' ' 


118  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

' '  Philip  Martin.    Martin  was  my  father 's  name. ' ' 

She  turned  down  the  flannel  from  the  baby's  face.  He 
stretched  out  a  little  arm,  yawned,  and  showed  his  gums. 

Birdwood  looked  at  the  infant  and  a  strange  expres- 
sion— part  triumph  and  part  grief — brooded  upon  his 
countenance. 

"Ouldsbroom  be  terrible  pleased,  I  suppose?" 

"You  needn't  ask  that." 

"  So  be  it  then.    The  Lord  give  him  joy  of  my  son ! ' ' 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  I 

Little  Martin's  life  dawned  upon  the  wild  region  of 
Hartland — Hartland,  in  its  immense  amphitheatre  of 
hills  and  valleys;  Hartland,  with  its  coney-cropped  turf 
and  crown  of  granite;  with  its  feet  amid  the  brakes  of 
fern  and  furze,  and  the  cloud-feathers  flying  free  on  the 
blue  above.  Dart  wound  beneath,  now  shrunk  to  a  broken 
ribbon  of  light  in  summer,  now  shouting  the  song  of  the 
freshets.  And  round  about  the  homestead,  when  the 
weather  was  fair,  linen  twinkled,  fast  held  by  thorn- 
trees  against  theft  of  the  wind.  To-day  the  sky  would  be 
full  of  light,  that  burnt  into  a  nimbus  of  splendour  when 
the  sun  sank  behind  Broad  Down;  to-morrow  might 
break  sad-coloured,  with  low  fog-banks  rolling  onward, 
like  armies  under  tattered  pennons  of  silver,  where  a 
watery  gleam  pierced  through  them.  Now  the  west  wind 
roamed  and  roared ;  now  the  north  wind  brought  up 
winter  on  wings  heavy  with  snow ;  now  again  the  vernal 
time  returned;  the  Moor  offered  welcome  of  humble 
flowers  in  marsh  and  heath,  and  the  grey  cuckoo  chimed 
his  two  sweet  notes  from  dawn  till  even. 

Martin  presently  created  pet  haunts  in  Hartland  Tor 
and  shared  them  with  the  ferns  and  pennyworts,  the 
stonecrops,  and  dull  rosettes  of  foxglove  leaves  that  lifted 
spires  and  bells  when  summer  came.  A  great  shelf  of 
rock  faced  south  upon  the  tor,  and  beneath  it,  as  years 
passed  by,  he  played  for  hours  together.  None  shared 
so  many  of  these  hours  as  Philip ;  but  other  children  often 
came,  and  the  boy's  cousins  from  Stannon  were  fre- 

119 


120  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

quently  at  Hartland.  There  were  five  of  them  by  this 
time,  and  Maggie,  Jaeky,  Samuel,  and  Minnie  might  often 
be  seen  in  company  of  Martin  at  Hartland,  or  in  the  old 
sheep-fold  not  far  distant.  They  played  their  children's 
games,  made  believe,  took  full  unconscious  joy  of  life, 
and  planned  their  great  to-morrows  full  of  mighty  inten- 
tions— all  forgotten  when  to-morrow  came.  For  night — 
to  the  adult  mind  but  a  curtain,  often  thin  enough, 
through  which  coming  day  stares  forth  with  all  its 
promise  or  its  threat — brings  real  oblivion  and  a  great 
forgetfulness  to  the  little  child.  His  connecting  links  are 
feeble ;  he  begins  a  new  life  every  morning ;  and  the  dom- 
inant present,  with  its  instant  claim  and  immediate  de- 
sires, hopes,  hungers,  will  often  obliterate  all  the  pur- 
poses that  filled  the  small  soul  till  sleep  drowned  them 
and  swept  the  mind  blank  for  new  impressions. 

l\Iartin  was  a  slight-built,  healthy,  and  hearty  boy ;  and 
as  he  reached  the  age  of  ten  years  his  character  began  to 
develop.  Already  he  promised  to  resemble  his  father  in 
countenance,  and  his  nature  was  staid.  He  had  a 
seriovTS,  speculative  mind  and  took  the  lead  among  his 
playmates.  His  eyes  were  dark  grey,  like  his  mother's, 
his  hair  was  black  and  straight.  His  intellect  promised 
to  be  very  clear.  He  was  an  obstinate  child,  but  Unity 
did  not  find  his  nature  difficult.  Her  great  problem  cen- 
tred rather  in  Philip  and  his  attitude  to  the  young  life. 
Ouldsbroom  fought  to  win  Martin,  and  could  not  see  why 
all  his  striving  should  be  so  largely  in  vain.  He  ex- 
hausted his  scanty  ingenuity,  and  sometimes  raged  dis- 
heartened at  obvious  failure;  but  then,  with  a  great 
awakening  hope,  redoubled  his  efforts  before  apparent 
success.  He  built  upon  the  future  more  and  more,  and 
was  swift  to  notice  any  closer  understanding  between 
hirtLself  and  the  boy.  A  marvel  arose  out  of  the  relation, 
for  even  Philip  learned  a  little  patience,  and  though  he 
broke  out  not  seldom,  was  swiftly  contrite  again.  He 
offered  a  spectacle  of  Ijitter  import  to  those  two  who  un- 
derstood it;  and  as  they  watched  year  after  year,  their 
estimate  of  its  significance  differed.  For  this  cause,  as 
well  as  for  other  reasons,  their  friendship  waned. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  121 

Philip  kept  open  eyes  and  alert  senses  to  catch  every 
glimmer  of  himself  iu  Martin.  Physically  they  had  noth- 
ing in  common,  for  the  farmer  was  all  Saxon  and  the 
child  all  Celt ;  but  driven  from  that  expectation  and  hope, 
Ouldsbroom  fell  back  upon  deeper  things,  and,  with  such 
meagre  power  of  observation  as  he  possessed,  looked  out 
for  his  tricks  of  thought  or  speech,  anticipated  the  ap- 
pearance of  his  own  tastes,  his  attitude  to  life,  his  general 
innate  characteristics  and  method  of  self-expression. 

A  revealed  shadow  of  these  things  put  him  in  good 
temper  for  the  day,  and  at  first,  thanks  to  the  imitative 
instinct  of  infancy,  Martin  satisfied  Philip;  but  every 
year  saw  the  boy  come  closer  to  his  own  nature,  and  every 
year  Ouldsbroom  was  constrained  to  admit  to  his  fierce 
heart  that  the  mother  was  prepotent  in  her  child.  And 
then  again  some  spark  or  sign  wakened  his  hope  once 
more,  and  he  blamed  himself  for  impatience  and  unkind- 
ness. 

Unkind  indeed  his  nature  never  could  be.  From  the 
first  he  poured  out  all  the  riches  of  an  unreasoning  love 
and  won  the  affection  of  Martin  absolutely.  No  young 
thing  could  have  withstood  such  worship  and  devotion. 
The  boy  cried  for  his  fancied  father  when  he  was  sick  or 
unhappy;  he  confided  his  brief  woes  to  him;  he  crept  to 
him  when  he  had  done  wrong  and  knew  it.  But  he  did 
very  little  wrong.  Rectitude  and  obedience  to  authority 
were  natural  in  him,  and  his  obstinacy  generally  ap- 
peared among  matters  of  pleasure  rather  than  duty.  He 
was  not  often  punished.  His  father  had  struck  him  once 
or  twice — for  no  fault  excepting  that  he  was  himself; 
and,  after  these  lapses,  Philip  would  beg  the  child  to  for- 
give him,  and  redouble  his  kindness.  Martin's  mother, 
on  the  contrary,  corrected  him  with  jealous  care.  She 
salved  her  conscience  and  excused  herself  for  bringing 
him  into  the  world  by  determining  that  he  should  amply 
justify  his  existence.  In  this  ambition  she  felt  her  hope 
grow,  for  there  was  a  strong  bent  to  religious  observance 
in  Martin  that  appeared  even  in  his  games.  She  knew 
about  these  things,  but  hid  them  from  her  husband,  and 
trusted  that  he  might  not  discover  them  for  himself. 


122  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Into  her  own  heart  Unity  did  not  allow  herself  much 
time  to  look.  She  toiled  without  ceasing,  and  she  devoted 
her  leisure  to  her  husband  and  only  child.  Her  common 
sense  assured  her  that  by  such  devotion  she  might  atone 
for  the  past.  Her  conscience  denied  it,  and  the  growing 
facts  of  Martin 's  character  denied  it.  She  had  not  guessed 
that  the  boy's  own  nature  and  the  accident  of  his  pater- 
nity might  breed  a  lifelong  tragedy ;  she  had  never  antici- 
pated that  her  deed  would  cry  out  under  her  eyes  for  ever. 

She  was  a  pattern  wife  to  the  man,  and  that  proved  no 
light  task  as  the  years  rolled  on ;  because  Philip,  at  fifty- 
three,  continued  for  the  most  part  unchanged.  He 
thought  himself  as  wise  as  his  generation;  he  uttered 
definite  opinions  on  all  subjects  of  religion,  husbandry, 
politics,  and  life ;  but  such  as  were  of  any  worth  he  had 
mostly  received  at  second  hand  from  another.  His  own 
views  were  entirely  unpractical  and  made  against  pros- 
perity, since  he  continued  to  judge  mankind  from  the 
standpoint  of  his  own  trusting  and  generous  soul,  and 
built  his  estimates  of  all  conduct  on  appearances  rather 
than  the  facts  underlying  them. 

The  man's  wife  had  difficult  work  sometimes  to  support 
his  credit  and  character.  But  she  prospered  in  the  task 
and  strove  also,  with  no  small  skill,  to  gain  to  herself  the 
business  administration  of  Hartland.  In  some  directions 
she  succeeded,  and  then  took  good  care  that  Philip  won 
the  credit.  When  praised,  she  always  asserted  that  his 
mind  controlled,  while  she  was  only  the  willing  instru- 
ment. Her  influence  had  grown  enormous  over  him,  and 
yet  he  did  not  feel  it.  Only  when  she  was  from  home 
could  he  realise,  by  his  discomfort,  incertitude,  and  sud- 
den desire  for  stimulant  to  bolster  depression,  how  vital 
she  had  become  to  his  well-being. 

All  Unity's  ambitions  centred  in  Martin.  She  looked 
far  ahead  and  held  no  trouble  wasted  on  Philip  that 
could  help  to  fortify  her  son's  ultimate  inheritance. 

It  puzzled  the  farmer  to  see  how  the  boy  resembled  his 
mother  in  many  particulars,  and  how  his  mother  under- 
stood him.  He  was  envious  but  not  jealous.  As  Martin 
drifted  farther  and  farther  from  him,  nearer  and  nearer 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  123 

to  his  wife,  Philip  never  felt  one  pang  of  jealousy.  He  as- 
sured himself  that  it  was  natural ;  he  was  quick  to  leap  at 
a  chance  of  bringing  joy  to  the  child ;  only  in  secret  or  out 
of  Unity's  sight  did  he  give  vent  to  his  disappointment. 
Fault  there  was  none  within  reach  of  remedy;  and  that 
made  the  situation  absurd.  The  boy  grew  up  good,  cheer- 
ful, well  behaved;  and  to  advance  this  very  fact  as  his 
grievance  even  Philip  perceived  was  futile.  Nevertheless, 
he  did  so  sometimes,  in  the  sole  ears  that  could  understand. 

The  inevitable  had  overtaken  Barbara  Hext  and  her 
dog  'Sarah.'  The  spaniel  was  dead;  while  to  Barbara 
there  came  an  assistant  in  the  shape  of  Mrs.  Dury  's  eldest 
daughter.  The  change  was  now  some  years  old,  and  Kate 
Dury,  with  reason,  considered  herself  a  most  successful 
shopwoman;  but  Miss  Hext  could  never  be  got  to  admit 
as  much.  She  seldom  enjoyed  herself  so  well  as  when 
Kate  begged  for  a  whole  holiday  and  left  the  establish- 
ment in  sole  charge  of  the  mistress  as  of  yore.  Concern- 
ing the  postal  department,  Barbara,  though  growing  a 
little  shaky,  continued  to  conduct  that  single-handed; 
and,  indeed,  the  work  was  light  enough. 

Hither  on  a  morning  in  winter  came  Philip,  and  with 
him  he  brought  ]\Iartin.  It  was  the  child's  tenth  birth- 
day, and  he  arrived  to  spend  a  shilling.  The  boy  was 
very  silent  on  the  way  to  Postbridge,  and  Philip 's  prattle 
won  little  response.  This  annoyed  him,  yet  nothing  could 
have  been  more  np,tural.  The  shilling  had  come  as  a 
great  and  splendid  surprise ;  it  was  a  large  sum  of  money, 
and  how  to  spend  it  to  the  best  advantage  demanded  most 
careful  thought.  Martin,  therefore,  did  not  desire  to 
talk,  but  to  reflect.  ; 

At  the  Eiver,  Ouldsbroom  bade  the  child  go  and  play 
for  a  little. 

"I  want  to  have  a  tell  along  o'  Miss  Hext,"  he  said. 
"  I  '11  shout  to  you  when  you  can  come  in. ' ' 

The  boy  went  off,  but  did  not  play.  He  climbed  on 
to  the  old  pack-horse  bridge,  and  sat  there  with  his  legs 
dangling  over  the  water  and  his  mind  upon  the  shilling. 

Presently  he  took  it  out  of  his  pocket  and  examined  it, 
as  though  study  of  the  coin  might  help  decision. 


124  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Philip  meanwhile  spoke  to  Barbara.  She  had  grown 
grey  of  late,  but  was  comely  still. 

"Bid  Katey  clear  out,"  he  said  abruptly.  "I  want  a 
tell  with  you. ' ' 

"Kate  can't  clear  out,"  answered  the  postmistress, 
"Come  in  my  parlour,  if  you  must  see  me.  Where's 
Martin  ?     'Tis  his  birthday. ' ' 

"lie's  outside.  I  told  him  to  go  and  play,  but  of  course 
he  vv^on't.  Childer  don't  know  the  meaning  of  play  now- 
adays. His  birthday  and  all,  yet  he 's  solemn  as  a  judge. 
I've  planned  a  surprise  for  him  this  afternoon — to  take 
him  out  on  a  pony  and  have  tea  with  the  Mastermans  at 
the  'Ring  o'  Bells.'  But  it  looks  as  though  the  treats 
I  plan  for  him  give  me  more  pleasure  than  the  boy." 

"Don't  say  that,  or  think  it.  He  feels  more  than  he 
shows,"  said  Barbara. 

"And  then,"  continued  the  man,  "my  pleasure's 
turned  to  gall  to  see  that  he 's  got  none.  The  things  I  've 
tried — racked  my  brain  to  remember  all  that  was  good  to 
me  when  I  was  a  nipper.  Damned  if  I  can  understand  it. ' ' 

"He's  a  wonderful  thoughtful  child,  and  old  for  his 
years — remember  that.  The  fault's  not  in  him,  Philip, 
'tis  in  you." 

"In  me!  And  you  say  so,  Barbara — you,  who  under- 
stand— leastways,  I  thought  you  did.  What  can  I  do 
more  than  I  do  ?    Where  be  I  wrong  ? ' ' 

"You're  wrong  for  biding  young  into  middle  age," 
she  said.  "You  ought  to  be  angry  with  yourself,  not 
him.  Nature's  played  the  fool  with  you  and  kept  a  boy's 
mind  in  a  man's  body.  Well  I  know,  for  I'm  a  bit  like 
that  myself,  and  should  have  been  more  so  if  life  had 
fallen  out  different.  I  do  understand,  and  I  think  'tis  a 
fine  thing  in  its  way  to  keep  young  at  all  hazards.  But 
the  people  don't,  and  of  course  the  boy  don't.  How 
should  he?  He's  not  a  boyish  fashion  of  boy,  and  that 
you  must  allow  for. ' ' 

"But  if  he  ban't  young  now,  what  the  deuce  will  he 
come  to  presently  ?  If  a  child  but  turned  of  ten — there, 
'tis  nonsense!  I  won't  believe  it.  He  chatters  all  right 
sometimes  and  can  make  a  game  so  well  as  any  young 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  125 

boy.  'Tis  I  that  puzzle  kim — sa-me  as  he  puzzles  me. 
If  I  cuss,  he  looks  through  me  and  then  at  his  mother.  I 
catched  him  and  his  cousins  playing  at  prayers  t'other 
day  on  Hartland.  My  child  playing  at  prayers !  All  the 
same,  Barbara,  years  have  brought  a  good  bit  of  sense  to 
me,  and  if  I  hadn't  got  it,  my  life  wouldn't  have  run  so 
smooth  as  it  have.  Therefore  I  'm  very  patient  with  him. 
He's  all  the  world  to  me — my  only  one ;  though  I  do  wish 
to  God  I'd  got  a  few  more  on  a  different  pattern." 

"The  child's  like  his  mother — the  very  tone  of  her 
voice  sometimes." 

"And  couldn't  be  like  a  better  woman.  I'd  set  store 
on  him  for  that  alone.  But  I  catch  myself  hankering — 
however,  I  needn't  waste  your  time.  'T wasn't  that  I 
come  to  say.     'Twas  a  message  from  Unity." 

They  discussed  a  matter  concerning  the  price  of  food, 
then  Philip  beckoned  Martin  from  the  river. 

"Now,  my  ten-year-old!"  he  cried  out,  "bring  along 
your  shilling  to  Miss  Hext  and  her  brave  shop.  So  set 
to  work  and  let's  see  what  you  be  going  to  buy!" 

Martin  smiled  shyly,  thanked  Miss  Hext  for  her  con- 
gratulations, and  began  to  look  about  him.  The  actual 
display  bewildered  his  previous  thoughts  and  plans.  He 
suddenly  began  to  think,  and  frowned;  then  he  turned 
to  the  postmistress. 

"I  be  wishful  to — to  spend  threepence  for  something 
for  mother,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  you  copy-book  boy!"  cried  Philip  almost  bit- 
terly; and  Martin  glanced  up  at  him  with  startled 
eyes. 

"Quite  right  and  proper,  Martin!"  declared  Miss 
Hext.  "Come  along  over  here,  and  I'll  see  what  we  can 
find.    A  nice  bit  of  ribbon — how  would  that  do?" 

"I  should  think  'twould  do  very  well.  Miss  Hext," 
he  answered. 

"And  what  colour  would  you  like  it  to  be,  my  dear?" 

He  considered  this  question  and  when  she  had  him 
out  of  Ouldsbroom's  sight,  behind  a  pile  of  goods,  she 
whispered  to  him: 

"Shall  you  get  anything  for  father?" 


126  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

"But  father  'twas  that  give  me  the  shilling/'  he 
answered. 

"Never  mind  that.  Buy  him  a  pipe.  I'll  sell  you  a 
fine  wood  pipe  for  threepence.'' 

He  looked  at  his  coin  doubtfully  and  she  said  no  more. 

They  returned  to  Ouldsbroom. 

"I've  bought  mother  a  bit  of  shiny  red  ribbon  for 
Sundays,  father,"  said  Martin. 

* '  Well  done  you !  And  she  shall  wear  it  and  not  hoard 
it,  I  promise  you.  And  now  let's  see  what  you  be  going 
to  buy. ' ' 

Barbara,  wishing  to  relieve  the  child's  anxieties,  her- 
self made  him  a  present  of  a  toy  boat.  He  thanked  her 
gratefully  and  his  father  did  the  like. 

"Now  get  on,  laddie,  w-e  musn't  keep  Miss  Hext  all 
day." 

"I'll  have  a  threepenny  wood  pipe  for  father,"  said 
Martin,  peeping  at  Miss  Hext  inquiringly. 

She  made  haste  to  fetch  a  pipe,  and  Philip  shouted 
out  the  liveliest  gratitude  and  joy. 

* '  Good  chap ! "  he  cried.  ' '  That 's  real  proper  of  you, 
sonny,  and  I  thank  you,  and  I  '11  always  keep  that  pipe — 
so  long  as  I  live  I  will — and  only  smoke  it  on  great  days ! ' ' 

He  hugged  the  boy  and  kissed  him,  and  rubbed  his 
muzzle  against  Martin's  brown  cheek.  Then  he  dragged 
his  tobacco  pouch  out  of  his  pocket  and  stuffed  the  pipe. 

"You  shall  have  first  puff,  Martin;  and  then  I'll  al- 
ways remember  that  yours  was  the  first  lips  ever  touched 
my  pipe.     Suck  in!" 

Martin  rather  nervously  obeyed,  while  his  father  held 
a  match  to  the  pipe.  The  smoke  made  the  boy  cough 
and  water  at  the  eyes,  while  Philip  laughed  uproariously. 

"Now  your  sixpence,"  he  said.  "What  be  going  to 
do  with  that?" 

Martin  reflected. 

"I've  got  this  here  butivul  boat,"  he  answered,  "and 
I  doan't  want  nought  else,  father.  I'll  put  my  sixpence 
in  my  money-box,  if  you  please." 

Ouldsbroom  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  regarded  Miss 
Hext. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  127 

"There!"  he  exclaimed.  "Did  you  ever  hear  such  a 
thing  from  a  boy  of  ten  ?    Be  it  natural  ? ' ' 

"  'Tis  good  sense  anyway." 

"  'Tis  damn  nonsense,"  answered  the  man.  "I  won't 
have  him  getting  fond  of  money  at  his  time  of  life.  A 
saver  at  ten,  good  Lord;  he'll  be  a  miser  at  twenty! 
Look  here,  Martin,  Miss  Hext  have  give  you  a  fine  boat, 
and  'twould  be  very  improper  after  that  if  you  wasn't 
to  spend  your  sixpence  in  her  shop  this  minute. ' ' 

The  child  was  somewhat  scared. 

"I  didn't  know  'twas  wrong,"  he  answered.  "Then 
I'll  have  one  of  they  little  brass  anchors  for  my  boat, 
please,  if  the  money 's  enough. ' ' 

Barbara  abstained  from  arguing,  for  she  knew  that  it 
would  annoy  Philip.  Her  sympathies  were  torn  between 
the  pair. 

* '  An  anchor  and  a  good  brass  cannon  you  shall  have, ' ' 
she  said. 

"And  very  like  a  sixpence  in  your  money-box  as  well — 
who  knows?"  promised  the  farmer. 

Laden  with  his  gifts,  Martin  set  off  home,  talked  cheer- 
fully of  the  day's  doings  and  watched  the  new  pipe  in 
his  father's  mouth. 

"Never  knowed  a  pipe  to  draw  more  suent,"*  declared 
Ouldsbroom.  "  'Twas  a  very  clever  thing  for  you  to 
think  of,  and  I  shall  set  mighty  store  by  it,  I  promise  you ; 
and  so  will  mother  by  the  ribbon." 

Then  Philip  had  an  idea. 

"I'll  give  'e  some  of  my  gunpowder  after  us  have  had 
dinner;  we'll  go  in  the  yard  and  take  your  cannon  and 
fire  it  off.  I  lay  the  chicken  will  all  scream  and  go  racing 
about  for  dear  life  when  they  hear  it  go  'bang' !" 

He  laughed  at  the  picture,  and  Martin  smiled — in  sym- 
pathy but  not  in  earnest.  The  spectacle  of  alarmed 
poultry  had  no  charm  for  him.  He  was  wondering 
whether  another  sixpence  would  be  found  for  his  money- 
box, and  whether,  if  his  father  forgot  the  promise,  he 
might  venture  to  remind  him. 

*  Suent — Easily,  sweetly. 


CHAPTER  II 

There  is  no  loneliness  in  nature,  and  of  Dartmoor  it  can 
never  be  said  that  it  is  empty.  But  watch  some  road, 
stretching  inexorable  mile  on  mile  across  the  heath,  and 
mark  a  solitary  figure  creeping  along  it.  Then  large 
loneliness  is  swiftly  felt,  as  a  quality  of  the  human  ad- 
dition, not  the  place. 

Such  a  figure  proceeded  on  a  summer  day  by  no  road, 
but  across  the  heavy  ground  above  Broad  Down.  It 
crawled,  a  mere  atom,  to  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  there, 
panting,  footsore  and  hungry,  flung  itself  down  and  fixed 
inquiring  eyes  upon  the  valley  beneath.  The  little  object 
was  a  boy,  and  he  had  travelled  fifteen  miles  across  the 
heart  of  the  Moor,  to  find  himself  utterly  exhausted 
above  Postbridge. 

Now  his  anxious  eyes  looked  ahead  and  instantly 
brightened.  The  troubled  expression  of  his  red  and 
freckled  countenance  changed  to  happiness,  and  he  re- 
joiced. 

"Golly — houses!"  he  said,  and  instantly  rose  again 
to  begin  the  descent  to  Postbridge. 

The  accident  of  his  discovery  banished  a  shadow  of 
growing  fear  and  put  heart  into  him.  His  mind  acted 
upon  his  body,  and  his  physical  fatigue,  for  the  time, 
grew  less. 

He  was  a  stout,  square-built  lad  of  twelve,  with  a  large 
mouth,  sandy  hair,  and  a  freckled  face,  now  very  red  and 
hot  with  his  exertions.  He  wore  only  corduroy  knicker- 
bockers, worsted  stockings,  and  a  blue  flannel  shirt.  He 
had  kicked  the  sole  off  one  of  his  boots  and  tied  it  on 
again  as  best  he  could.     His  stockings  were  torn;  his 

128 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  129 

mouth  was  stained  with  the  whortleberries  that  he  had 
eaten  on  his  way. 

He  was  desperately  hungry  and  weary,  but  he  stopped 
beside  the  river,  drank  some  water,  tightened  up  his  red 
braces  and  assumed  a  very  determined  expression. 

The  houses  proved  to  be  farther  off  than  he  expected, 
and  his  heart  sank  a  little;  but  suddenly,  round  the 
shoulder  of  a  hill,  a  farm  appeared  within  a  quarter  of 
a  mile,  and  he  said  ' Golly ! '  again  and  held  forward. 

He  was  giddy  and  weak  now.  He  reached  the  door 
of  Hartland  Farm,  knocked,  and  then,  v;ith  a  swimming 
head,  sat  down  suddenly  on  a  trestle  that  chanced  to 
be  in  the  porch.  With  an  effort  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether and  rose  as  Unity  Ouldsbroom  appeared  to  see 
who  had  come. 

"Please,  ma'am,"  he  began;  then  she  cut  him  short. 

"Be  off!"  she  said.  "Take  your  bacon  face  out  of 
this.    We  've  got  nought  for  beggars  here. ' ' 

"I'm  beat,"  answered  the  boy.  "Please — please  just 
give  me  a  mouthful.  I've  walked  all  across  Dartymoor 
wi'out  any  breaksis;  and  I'm  that  cruel  leery,*  I  shall 
tumble  down  if  I  don't  get  a  square  meal." 

"Be  you  alone?" 

"Ess,  ma'am." 

"You  want  a  square  meal — you  can  have  one,"  she 
said,  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  her  face  at  the  jest. 
Then  she  turned  to  the  kitchen  and  brought  the  boy  a 
dog-biscuit. 

He  thanked  her  abundantly  and  began  to  eat.  He 
had  big  yellow  teeth,  and  they  soon  crunched  up  the 
food. 

She  watched  him  a  few  moments  and  marked  his 
natural  strength.  He  was  sturdily  put  together,  with  big 
bones  and  a  fine  little  barrel.  He  promised  to  develop 
into  a  splendid  man  if  the  fates  were  kind.  He  had 
turned  up  the  sleeves  of  his  shirt  to  the  shoulder  for 
coolness,  and  Unity  noticed  that  his  arms  were  well 
covered  and  that  they  shone  in  the  sunshine  with  a  deli- 
cate down  of  bright  hairs. 

*  Leery — Hungry,  empty. 


130  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

"Eat  it  up  and  rest  for  two  minutes,  and  then  go 
along,"  she  said. 

"So  I  will  then,  and  thank  you  kindly,  missis,"  he 
answered. 

Unity,  satisfied  that  the  child  was  honest,  left  him; 
then  Philip  appeared,  returning  to  his  dinner. 

' '  Hullo ! ' '  cried  he,  * '  who  the  mischief  be  you  ? ' ' 

The  boy  stood  up  and  touched  his  head  with  his  finger. 

"Marnin',  sir!  I  made  so  bold  as  to  ax  for  a  bit  o' 
food,  and  the  lady  was  terrible  kind  and  let  me  have  this 
here." 

"Bah !  You  might  so  soon  eat  your  nails  as  that  mess. 
Give  it  to  me  and  wait  a  bit." 

He  took  the  remains  of  the  dog-biscuit  and  flung  it 
into  the  yard.  Then  he  entered  his  kitchen,  where  a 
dinner  of  pasties  awaited  him.  He  picked  up  the  largest 
in  the  dish  and  carried  it  out. 

' '  Here, ' '  he  said,  ' '  stuff  that  down  your  neck.  Whose 
boy  be  you,  then  ? ' ' 

"Golly!"  said  the  child.  "That's  pretty  eating,  that 
is.     Can  you  spare  it,  master?" 

'  *  Get  on.    Yes,  I  can  spare  it. ' ' 

"I'll  do  a  bit  of  work  later  when  I'm  rested.  Doctor 
at  the  Union  said  I  was  the  strongest  boy  as  ever  he  saw. 
An'  I  be  a  terrible  fierce  chap  too." 

"A  workhouse  boy?" 

"I've  runned  away  to  better  myself.  I've  runned  all 
across  the  Moor  from  Okehampton.  God's  my  judge 
if  it  ban't  true !  I'd  got  a  job  keeping  birds  from  corn ; 
and  I  chucked  it  so  soon  as  the  sun  was  up  and  miched 
off.  Too  fierce  I  be  for  that  sort  of  work.  And  I  thought 
I  was  done  for;  but  then  suddenly,  atop  of  thicky  hill, 
I  looked  down  and  catched  sight  of  houses." 

He  ate  with  his  eyes  on  Philip. 

' '  What 's  your  name  ? ' ' 

"Pancras  Lyd  they  called  me — after  the  church  saint 
and  the  river  to  Lydford,  where  I  was  found.  I  was 
lighted  on  there  years  and  years  agone  by  a  policeman 
when  I  was  a  babby ;  but  nobody  never  wanted  me.  And 
none  never  found  out  wheer  I  comed  from.    But  I  don't 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  131 

want  for  to  be  called  '  Paneras. '  I  want  for  to  be  called 
'  Tiger '  along  o '  being  so  fierce. ' ' 

Philip  laughed  heartily. 

' '  You'm  a  rum,  red  rascal !  Fierce — eh  ?  And  runned 
away  to  better  yourself,  did  'e  ? " 

"Ess,  fay.  I  want  to  be  at  something  braver  than 
frighting  birds. ' ' 

"Quite  right.     How  old  are  you?" 

"Fifteen." 

"You  little  liar!" 

The  boy  glanced  up  at  Philip. 

"I  feel  that  old,  master;  and  I  be  so  strong  as  any 
fifteen-year-old  chap.  Look  at  my  gert  arms.  They  say 
I'm  twelve,  but  if  I  said  I  was  twelve  I'd  never  get  a 
job." 

"Cunning  fox!  But  there'll  be  hue  and  cry  after  'e 
come  presently." 

' '  I  want  for  to  get  work  afore  they  find  me, ' '  explained 
the  boy.  "Because  nobody  will  be  better  pleased  than 
them  at  the  workhouse  if  I  be  took  off  their  hands.  They 
don't  want  fierce  boys." 

"I'll  warrant.     Only  the  tame  go  there." 

Martin  came  in  at  this  moment  and  his  father  called 
to  him. 

"Get  this  here  ferocious  chap  a  cup  of  milk,"  he  said. 

The  other  obeyed,  and  the  children  met. 

Martin  was  much  excited  and  interested.  They  left 
the  wanderer  to  finish  his  meal,  but  Unity's  boy  had 
no  appetite  for  dinner.  He  longed  to  return  to  the 
stranger. 

He  ran  out  soon,  and  found  Tiger  sitting  among  some 
pigs  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  yard,  with  his  back  against 
the  wall.    He  was  drowsy  and  his  head  nodded. 

He  touched  his  forehead  to  Martin. 

' '  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  rest  here,  master— i 
just  for  a  bit?  Then  I'll  get  up  and  set  to  work  and 
pay  for  my  dinner. ' ' 

"You  needn't  pay,"  answered  Martin.  "My  father 
wouldn't  wish  that — unless  you  feel  you  must  do  it. 
What's  your  name?" 


132  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"Tiger.    What 's  yourn ? " 

"Martin." 

Tiger  rolled  over  and  yawned  hugely. 

"Blessed  if  I  ban't  gwine  to  sleep!"  he  said. 

In  truth  he  slumbered  immediately,  and  Martin  ran  in 
with  the  news. 

"That  boy's  called  Tiger;  and  he's  gone  to  sleep  in 
the  yard  by  the  pigs, ' '  he  announced. 

"Let  un  bide  then,"  ordered  Philip.  "The  young 
rip's  run  away  from  Okehampton — to  better  hisself! 
Let  him  sleep  it  out.  I  want  to  see  what  he'll  do  when 
he  wakes  up.  You  can  keep  about  and  watch  him,  Mar- 
tin. 'Fierce'  he  says  he  is.  Dartymoor's  knocked  the 
fierceness  out  of  him  to-day.    Ha-ha ! ' '      -.«">' 

Unity  protested,  but  Philip  had  his  will ;  her  son 
watched  over  the  wanderer 's  sleep  and  took  care  to  drive 
away  pigs  when  they  threatened  to  interfere  with  it.  At 
four  in  the  afternoon  Tiger  awakened,  much  refreshed, 
and  hungrier  than  ever.  The  latter  fact  he  did  not  men- 
tion, but  told  Martin  that  he  was  ready  to  work. 

"You'm  a  scholar,  I  see,"  he  remarked,  for  Martin 
had  been  reading  a  book  while  the  other  slept. 

"I  can  read  books,  and  the  Bible  too.  This  is  a  story- 
book I  got  for  a  prize  at  Simday  School. ' ' 

* '  Fancy  that  now !    Be  there  any  shows*  in  the  book " ' ' 

"  No ;  but  I  've  got  one  with  pictures. ' ' 

"A  beast  book?" 

"No." 

"I  seed  a  beast  book  open  in  a  shop  window  to  Oke- 
hampton. 'Twas  flung  ope  at  a  savage  tiger.  And  so 
I  said  I'd  be  'Tiger'  too,  cause  the  beast  had  such  a 
terrible  fine  way  with  him. ' ' 

"You  wasn't  baptized  'Tiger,'  was  you?" 

"No." 

Martin's  face  brightened  with  an  idea. 

' '  If  you  ain  't  been  baptized,  us  might  have  a  service — 
me  and  Minnie  and  Maggie  and  Jacky  and  Sam — and 
christen  you.  We  play  at  prayer-meetings  up  along, 
and  I  be  the  parson. ' ' 

*  Shows — Pictures. 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  133 

"  'Twould  make  a  very  brave  game,  I  dare  say." 

**Yes,  'twould.    We'll  do  it!" 

"But  I  must  go  to  work  now.  Do  'e  think  that  gert 
man  what  gived  me  the  pasty  would  let  me  carry  out 
enough  work  to  earn  a  bit  of  bread  and  dripping,  or  some 
such  thing,  for  my  tea  ? " 

"Yes,  I'm  'most  sure  he  would." 

"Well,  what's  to  do?" 

"Father's  digging  up  there  in  the  croft.  You'd  better 
ax  him." 

Tiger  rose,  and  found  himself  lame. 

' '  'Twas  my  baggering  old  boot, ' '  he  explained.  * '  The 
sole  dropped  off  of  un  and  I  had  to  tie  it  on,  and  took 
the  tail  o'  my  shirt  for  it.  But  I'm  that  fierce,  when  a 
thing  like  that  happens  I  take  no  count  of  it.  I  sup- 
pose you  haven't  got  a  pair  of  old  boots  to  spare  a 
chap?" 

"You  couldn't  get  in  my  boots,"  answered  Martin. 
"They'd  be  too  tight  for  'e.    Your  feet  be  whackers." 

' '  Have  you  got  a  big  brother  or  sister  then  ? ' ' 

"No." 

"Us '11  see  what  the  master  says." 

"He's  my  father,  and  he's  called  Philip  Ouldsbroom." 

They  started,  then  Tiger  stopped  suddenly  and  clapped 
his  hand  to  his  trouser  pocket. 

' '  'Tis  all  right, ' '  he  cried.    ' '  I  thought  I  'd  lost  un. ' ' 

"What?" 

'  *  My  Jew 's  harp.  I  found  it  last  Christmas  in  a  dust- 
heap,  and  I've  lamed  to  play  it  proper.  I'll  play  to  you 
come  presently,  when  I  ban't  busy." 

They  reached  Philip,  who  was  digging  and  trenching. 

"  I  've  come  for  a  bit  of  work,  please,  master. ' ' 

The  farmer  winked  at  Martin  to  show  that  he  intended 
a  joke.    Then  he  handed  his  big  spade  to  Tiger. 

"That's  a  brave  chap.  You  go  on  with  this  job  while 
I  smoke  a  pipe,  and  I'll  see  what  you  be  made  of." 

The  labour  was  impossible  to  a  boy  of  twelve,  and  the 
spade  came  up  to  the  runaway's  breast,  but  he  started 
valiantly,  and  puffed  and  sweated  and  struggled. 

"That  won't  do,"  said  Philip.    "That's  playing  at  it. 


134  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

You  must  break  the  ground  to  eighteen  inches.  You'm 
only  scraping  the  top." 

Tiger  thereupon  tightened  his  braces,  spat  on  his 
hands,  assumed  the  fiercest  scowl  he  could  summon,  and 
tried  to  dig  deeper. 

''I'd  stand  to  it  so  well  as  growed  man,  if  'twasn  't  for 
my  foot,"  he  said;  "but  a  chap  can't  drive  home  this 
gert  spade  in  this  here  boot." 

Philip,  however,  let  him  go  on,  though  Martin  twice 
whispered  to  him  to  give  the  boy  something  else  to  do. 

Tiger  fought  to  the  end  of  the  ridge,  then  stopped  to 
rest. 

"Don't  you  think  I  be  tired,  master,  'cause  I  ban't," 
he  declared.  "I  can  stand  to  work  so  well  as  any  clever 
chap.    Never  was  known  to  be  tired,  I  assure  'e. ' ' 

"That's  the  sort  I  like.  Go  at  it!"  answered  Oulds- 
broom. 

The  boy  struggled  on.  He  grew  very  red  in  the  face 
and  his  breath  began  to  come  hard. 

"How  much  might  I  have  earned  now,  master?"  he 
inquired  presently,  and  stopped  to  pant. 

"You've  about  earned  the  pasty." 

"There's  the  milk,"  said  Tiger;  and  he  set  to  work 
again.    Hope  of  winning  tea  grew  faint. 

But  then  the  man  stopped  him. 

' '  Good  boy  !  I  see  you  be  made  of  fighting  stuff.  I  'II 
give  'e  a  bit  of  work  you  can  do  easier  to-morrow.  Where 
be  you  off  to  now  ? ' ' 

"  'Tis  this  way,"  he  answered.  "I  want  for  to  roam 
off  to  foreign  parts.  But  I'm  looking  out  to  better  my- 
self for  the  minute,  and  make  a  shilling  or  two.  Per- 
haps you  might  know  somebody  as  wants  a  handy  boy?" 

"They'll  send  round  the  country  to  find  you." 

"  'Tis  all  one,  'cause  I've  changed  my  name.  I  know 
you  won't  tell  on  me.  I  was  called  Pancras  Lyd  to  the 
workhouse;  but  now  I  be  called  'Tiger,'  and  a  reg'lar 
tiger  I  'm  going  for  to  be. " 

"Play  your  Jew's  harp.  Tiger,"  said  Martin. 

The  child  brought  his  toy  from  his  pocket,  set  it  be- 
tween his  strong  teeth  and  played  an  old  tune. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  135 

Ouldsbroom  roared  with  laughter. 

"Be  damned  if  you  can't  do  it  proper,"  he  said. 
"Here,  let  me  have  a  try!" 

He  tried,  made  strange  noises  and  failed. 

Now  Martin  laughed  and  wanted  to  try  too.  Tiger 
was  seized  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  teacher. 

"I'll  larn  you  to  do  it,  master!  If  you  let  me  bide 
wi'  you  for  just  a  day  or  two  I'll  larn  you  all  the  tunes 
I  know — four  and  a  hymn." 

"What  hymn?"  asked  the  other  boy.  He  reflected 
that  music  would  be  a  great  addition  to  the  prayer- 
meeting  game. 

A  voice  called  from  the  farm. 

"There's  mother,"  said  Martin.    "  'Tis  tea-time." 

"I'll  have  another  go  at  this  here  spade  while  you  get 
your  tea,"  suggested  Tiger;  but  the  farmer  refused. 

' '  Come  you  down  with  us  and  play  my  missis  a  tune, ' ' 
he  said.  ' '  She 's  a  gert  musicker,  and  can  sing  very  nice 
when  she 's  minded  to,  though  it  ban 't  often. ' ' 

"She  sings  lovely  to  church,"  declared  Martin. 

But  Unity  was  not  much  impressed  by  the  Jew's  harp. 
She  showed  no  great  interest  in  Tiger;  and  the  more 
Philip  encouraged  the  child,  the  less  did  she.  It  was  not 
until  the  boys  had  finished  their  meal  and  gone  out  to- 
gether that  she  relented. 

"He's  a  very  tidy  nipper,"  declared  Philip;  "Martin 
have  took  to  him  something  tremendous.  I  be  going  to 
let  him  bide  for  a  day  or  two,  till  his  foot 's  mended.  He 
makes  me  laugh — and  strong  as  a  pony  he  is.  Us '11  see 
what  use  he  may  be.  There 's  that  in  him  will  do  Martin 
good,  I  believe." 

"You'll  have  him  on  your  hands  afore  you  can  look 
round,"  she  answered.  "They'll  be  very  glad  to  get 
rid  of  him  at  the  workhouse,  no  doubt,  though  they'll 
want  his  rags  back." 

"As  to  that,  a  boy  can  always  get  a  job  if  he's  got 
work  in  him.  We'll  see  what  character  they  give  him 
from  Okehampton.  A  bad  one,  I  reckon.  You  might 
write  off  a  letter,  Unity,  and  tell  'em  he's  safe  for  the 
minute  and  ax  'em  about  him.    Then  we'll  see  if  he's  a 


136  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

liar  or  not.  He's  told  me  one  lie  a 'ready — said  he  was 
fifteen — sly  dog!  because  he  hoped  I'd  think  better  of 
his  usefulness.  You  write;  there's  a  dear  woman,  and 
I  '11  go  down  and  post  it. ' ' 

In  a  matter  of  this  kind  Unity  was  always  lightning- 
quick  to  make  capital  and  establish  a  balance,  to  be  drawn 
upon  when  her  turn  came  for  asking  favours. 

"What  a  fellow  you  are!"  she  answered.  ''Lucky 
for  us  we're  off  the  road,  or  your  silly  way  would  be  to 
find  room  for  every  tramp  that  set  the  dog  barking.  I'll 
write  and  hear  what  they've  got  to  answer — since  you 
say  it  must  be  so. ' ' 

"That's  right!  Who  but  you  would  be  so  sensible? 
And  if  they  don't  give  him  a  good  character,  back  he 
goes. ' ' 

"They'll  know  that,  and  say  the  best  they  can." 

Her  husband,  well  pleased,  went  out  to  join  the  boys. 

They  were  busy  packing  fern  into  an  old  broken  barrel 
on  the  hill  outside  the  farmyard. 

"Us  be  making  a  little  cubby-hole  for  me  to  sleep  in 
to-night,  master,"  explained  Tiger.  "Martin  says  you 
don't  set  no  store  on  this  here  barrel,  and  I  can  make 
a  very  fine  lair  in  it,  if  'tis  all  the  same  to  you. ' ' 

"You  may  sleep  in  the  shippon,"  answered  Philip; 
"and  you'll  have  to  work  like  the  devil  to-morrow,  be- 
cause I  be  going  to  get  'e  a  pair  of  boots  down  in  the 
village." 

Tiger  rejoiced  in  the  boots,  but  regretted  the  barrel. 

"  'Tis  cruel  kind,  master,  and  I'll  work  the  flesh  off 
my  bones  come  morning,"  he  said;  "but,  if  'tis  all  one, 
I  terrible  wish  to  sleep  in  this  here  old  cask.  'Twould 
seem  a  bit  fiercer  like  than  being  under  cover.  I  never 
thought  to  put  my  head  under  no  roof  no  more  when  I 
set  out  this  marnin'." 


CHAPTER  III 

Philip  Ouldsbroom  called  at  the  'Warren  House'  on 
his  way  home  from  Moretonhampstead.  Mr.  Twigg  was 
not  in  the  bar ;  but  Millicent  Mary,  now  elevated  to  the 
counter,  served  him. 

There  Avas  an  old  man  named  Woodley  in  the  corner — 
bent,  dirty,  and  toothless.  He  drank  gin-and-water, 
and  regarded  some  young  labourers  with  pint  pots  before 
them.  Philip,  marking  the  envy  in  his  face,  took  his 
drink  and  sat  beside  him. 

"What's  wrong,  gaffer?"  he  asked. 

"Time's  wrong,"  answered  the  patriarch.  "Look  at 
they  youngsters  swilling.  'Tis  as  hard  a  thing  as  we 
ancient  blids  can  suffer  to  be  reminded  of  what  we've 
lost." 

"Every  dog  has  his  day.  We've  drunk  our  quarts 
and  turned  night  into  morning  afore  now,  too." 

But  Philip  could  not  comfort  the  aged  spirit. 

' '  I  ban 't  grudging  them ;  but  I  be  quarrelling  with  my 
own  cruel  luck,"  explained  Mr.  Woodley.  "Here  be  I, 
not  eighty  year  old  yet,  and  dursn't  let  down  beer  for 
fear  of  shortening  my  life.  And  when  'tis  so  with  a  man, 
the  angel  of  the  Lord  couldn't  make  him  cheerful." 

"What's  the  matter  with  gin?"  asked  Ouldsbroom. 
"Have  a  drop  along  with  me." 

Gregory  Twigg  and  Henry  Birdwood  came  in  together. 
Mr.  Twigg  wore  well,  Birdwood  did  not.  The  positions 
between  them  were  reversed  in  one  particular.  Increas- 
ing weight  tended  to  keep  Gregory  out  of  the  saddle  and 
much  diminish  his  activity.  He  had  just  resigned  the 
position  of  Moorman  to  the  East  Quarter  and  Birdwood 
was  about  to  succeed  him. 

"I've  been  telling  Henry  that  it  wouldn't  surprise  me 
if  some  note  was  took  by  Duchy  of  my  resigning,"  said 
Twigg.    "  'Tis  pretty  generally  allowed,  I  believe,  that 

137 


138  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

I  've  been  the  bailiff 's  right  hand  for  fifteen  year,  and  on 
a  great  change  like  this  taking  place  'twould  be  a  natural 
and  human  thing  to  give  me  a  feed  and  a  piece  of  plate 
to  hand  down  to  my  family  when  I'm  gathered  home. 
"What  d  'you  say  to  that,  souls  1 ' ' 

The  young  men  grinned  indifferently;  the  ancient  in 
the  corner,  from  his  cynical  standpoint  of  seventy-and- 
seven,  bade  Gregory  hope  for  nothing  of  the  sort. 

* '  Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind, ' '  he  said.  ' '  You  ought  to 
know  by  this  time  what  Duchy  does;  and  bailiff's  only 
the  whip  in  Duchy's  hand,  when  all's  said." 

Ouldsbroom,  however,  took  a  different  view.  The  hope 
of  a  revel  or  merry-making  was  always  meat  and  drink 
to  him.  Many  a  time  had  he  been  instrumental  in  getting 
up  of  little  testimonials,  and  so  adding  to  the  amenities 
of  his  environment  with  good  fellowship.  He  still  laughed 
at  Twigg  for  a  vain  humbug,  but  bore  him  no  ill-will. 

' '  A  proper  idea,  Greg ! "  he  said.  ' '  But  you  can 't  very 
well  start  a  subscription  for  yourself,  so  you  keep  your 
mouth  shut,  if  you  know  how,  and  leave  the  job  to  your 
neighbours.  Next  time  I  see  bailiff,  I  '11  sound  him.  We  '11 
kill  two  birds  wi'  one  stone  strambang!  We'll  have  a 
blow-out  and  a  bit  of  fun  and  buy  you  a  new  top  hat, 
or  your  missis  a  tea-pot,  with  what 's  left  over ! ' ' 

Gregory  was  gratified,  but  wished  the  proposal  might 
come  from  a  loftier  quarter. 

"You  mean  well,  Ouldsbroom,"  he  said.  "And  for  a 
man  without  religion  few  could  mean  better.  But  do 
nought,  I  beg  of  you.  This  thing  should  be  in  higher 
hands.  By  that  I  don't  mean  my  Maker,  but  Duchy. 
Do  nought,  and  see  what  happens.  When  I  think  of 
the  ocean  of  brain-work  I  've  done  for  the  bailiff,  I  can 't 
suppose  that  a  solemn  thing,  like  my  dropping  out  of 
the  East  Quarter,  will  pass  as  if  'twas  nought." 

**  'Twill  pass  like  a  shadow  on  the  heath — same  as 
you  will  yourself — and  we  all  shall,"  said  Mr.  Woodley 
in  the  corner. 

"Don't  you  talk  that  rummage,"  answered  Philip; 
"you  forget  the  five  pounds  us  got  together  for  you  when 
your  wife  died." 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  139 

'' There's  Millicent  Mary's  wedding  too,"  continued 
Gregory.  "I  suppose  'tis  known  now  far  and  wide  that 
I've  consented  to  her  taking  the  carrier.  He  came  shak- 
ing before  me  last  Saturday." 

' '  He  didn  't  shake ! ' '  said  Millicent  Mary  from  behind 
the  bar.  "You  know  he  didn't  shake,  father.  He  ban't 
that  sort  of  man.    What  have  he  got  to  shake  about  ? ' ' 

"Go  in  the  other  room,"  answered  Mr.  Twigg,  "and 
don't  speak  in  that  tone  of  voice,  because  well  you  know 
I  never  will  have  it." 

The  girl  departed,  and  her  parent  continued: 

"He  came  to  offer  himself;  and  though  I  can't  say  the 
Coombers  of  Dousland  be  all  to  my  liking,  there 's  nought 
against  him.  He's  added  coke  and  coal  to  his  other 
chores,  and  there's  a  modest  manner  and  religion  to  him. 
So  it  will  happen." 

"Be  you  going  to  bide  out  at  Teign  Head,  or  shall  you 
come  into  Postbridge  now?"  asked  a  man  of  Birdwood. 

"I  shall  stop  there.  There's  no  house  in  Postbridge 
for  the  minute. ' ' 

"Build  one,  Henry,"  suggested  Philip.  "  'Twould  be 
better  every  way  if  you  was  nearer  Princetown. ' ' 

' '  I  might — later.    Must  see  how  I  get  on. ' ' 

"Don't  be  too  hopeful,"  urged  Twigg.  "I  believe 
everybody  knows  the  M^ay  I  can  handle  figures.  Why, 
last  year  saj-s  the  bailiff  to  me,  'Dammy,  Twigg,'  he  says 
— he  using  the  word,  not  me — 'dammy,  Twigg,  you  can 
make  'em  talk ! '  And  that 's  the  truth.  But  with  all  my 
large  skill,  I  never  got  anything  to  be  called  big  money 
out  of  the  Quarter,  so  you  musn  't  expect  to,  Henry. ' ' 

"You'll  marry  on  the  strength  of  it,  I  reckon,"  sug- 
gested a  youth  to  Birdwood;  but  the  shepherd  shook  his 
head. 

"Not  me,  Samuel.  No  wife  for  me.  Philip  here  have 
been  at  me  like  a  woodpecker  at  a  tree — hammering, 
hammering  it  into  me  to  take  a  wife;  but  not  even  for 
him  would  I  do  it. ' ' 

"Silly  mumphead  that  you  are!"  cried  the  farmer. 
"What  a  fool  is  a  man  that  flings  away  the  best  half  of 
life  and  goes  alone^eh,  Twigg?" 


140  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

"You  might  think  so,  neighbour,  but  remember  Paul. 
Marriage  is  a  great  lottery.  If  you've  got  understanding, 
I  say  nothing.  Perhaps  no  man  ever  chose  so  well  as  I 
did,  along  of  the  brain-power  I  brought  to  the  task.  But, 
with  nine  out  of  ten  ordinary  men,  it  is  a  lottery,  because 
the  female  nature  is  entirely  different  from  ours.  You 
may  have  marked  that." 

"  'Tis  the  mixture  of  sense  and  silliness  in  'em,"  said 
Philip.  "The  surprises  be  the  salt  of  'em — the  ups  and 
downs.  If  'tweren't  for  the  downs,  the  ups  wouldn't 
be  half  so  tasty.    Laugh — I  die  of  laughing  sometimes." 

"Do  you?"  asked  the  innkeeper.  "Now  that  sur- 
prises me.  What  do  you  find  to  laugh  at  in  your  lady, 
if  I  may  ask?" 

' '  She  've  got  more  sense  than  any  woman  in  Postbridge, 
bar  the  postmistress ;  and  none  deny  it, ' '  said  the  ancient 
Woodley. 

' '  She  have — far  more — far  more  sense  than  me,  if  you 
like;  but  'tis  women's  sense,  not  man's;  and  women's 
sense  do  look  so  damn  funny  now  and  again, ' '  explained 
Ouldsbroom.  "Their  thrift — bless  'em — the  way  they 
overwork  a  half-penny,  and  don't  see  that  to  spend  six- 
pence, and  have  done  with  it,  would  pay  a  long  sight 
better  in  the  upshot.  My  dear  woman  bought  the  boy 
a  pair  of  shop-worn  shoes  for  cheapness  last  year,  and 
then  blackguarded  Martin  because  they  was  too  tight 
for  him !  Darling  creatures !  'Tis  things  like  that  make 
you  love  'em." 

"What's  this  I  hear  tell  of  a  boy  you've  picked  up, 
Phil  ? ' '  asked  Birdwood. 

"Why,  'tis  so.  The  rascal  marched  into  Hartland  a 
month  agone,  and  he's  there  yet.  And  a  proper  boy  too. 
My  wife 's  a  bit  uncertain  about  it,  but  she  '11  come  round, 
for  there's  plenty  for  him  to  do  and  he's  wonderful 
handy  for  such  a  nipper.  And  my  lad  have  taken  to 
him;  and  so  have  I." 

"A  workhouse  boy,  I  was  told,"  said  Gregory. 

"  So  he  is.  They  don  '1  want  him  back  if  I  '11  keep  him. 
He  was  found,  as  an  infant  child,  by  a  policeman  in  Lyd- 
f ord  parish,  and  be  called  after  the  river  and  the  church. 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  141 

But  that  won't  do  for  him.  'Tiger'  he's  to  be,  if  you 
please!" 

"You'll  rue  it,"  foretold  Twigg.  "I  lay  my  life  he's 
a  gipsy  brat  and  full  of  bad  blood.  Keep  him,  and  so 
like  as  not  he'll  cut  all  your  throats  whilst  you  sleep,  or 
set  Hartland  afire." 

"Not  a  chance!"  declared  Ouldsbroom.  "He's  a  red, 
freckled  toad — nothing  of  the  gipsy  in  him.  They  be  all 
brown  people.  And  I've  no  quarrel  with  them,  for  that 
matter.  I'd  be  very  well  satisfied  with  a  van  myself. 
'Tis  a  large-minded,  sporting  way  of  life." 

' '  I  should  have  reckoned  that  your  own  boy  could  have 
done  a  bit  of  rough  work  round  the  house  by  now, ' '  said 
Mr.  Woodley.  "I  was  earning  my  living  picking  stones 
off  the  land  when  I  was  seven,  afore  all  this  silly  foolery 
of  sending  childer  to  school  began." 

"No,"  answered  Philip.  "His  mother  have  her  ideas 
for  Martin.  Come  he's  a  bit  bigger,  he'll  go  to  a  proper 
school.  He's  a  clever  child  a 'ready  and  can  read  out 
loud  very  nice. ' ' 

"If  this  foundling  boy  had  been  a  bit  bigger  I'd  have 
took  him  off  your  hands,  if  he 's  as  smart  as  you  think, ' ' 
said  Henry  Birdwood.  ' '  Ned  Sleep  will  have  to  be  gone 
afore  another  summer.  He  knows  it  himself.  He's 
riddled  with  rheumatism,  and  his  breathing  parts  be 
giving  out  seemingly." 

"  'Twill  be  the  workhouse  for  him,  I'm  much  afraid," 
said  Philip. 

"He  knows  that  too.  He  takes  it  as  all  in  the  day's 
work.  Nothing  was  ever  seen  to  fluster  that  man.  He's 
so  well  used  to  looking  forward  and  weighing  things,  that 
'twill  be  no  shock  to  him.  He've  got  all  the  workhouse 
rules  and  regulations  at  his  fingers'  ends,  and  he  reckons 
that  on  the  whole  he'll  be  more  comfortable  in  than  out. 
He's  been  trying  to  better  himself  for  twenty  years,  and 
though  there's  less  liberty,  he  says  that  so  far  as  clothes 
and  comfort  go,  the  union  will  be  easier  than  TeignHead. " 

"He's  right  there,"  declared  Ouldsbroom.  "You 
don't  know  the  meaning  of  comfort,  Henry.  I've  often 
heard  my  wife  say  so. " 


142  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

Birdwood  laughed. 

''Comfort — what  do  men  want  with  comfort?  If  you 
want  to  be  comfortable,  you  can  die." 

He  departed  upon  this  sentiment,  and  Twigg  discussed 
him. 

''A  cheerless  man,  though  a  godly,"  he  remarked. 
' '  When  his  father  was  going  home,  he  gave  that  old  lion 
ot  the  Lord  his  promise  as  he'd  come  back  to  the  Little 
Baptists.  And  back  he  came.  But  I  doubt  he  gets  much 
out  of  it.  There's  a  screw  loose  in  his  spirit,  and  I  wish 
he'd  let  me  tighten  it — for  'tis  well  within  my  power  so 
to  do.  I  can  read  the  soul  like  you  chaps  can  read  a 
book.  'Tis  second  nature  to  me  to  see  what's  going  for- 
ward in  the  heart  of  a  man.  Couldn't  tell  you  how  I  do 
it — just  one  of  my  gifts.  And  I  know  Henry's  not  what 
you  may  call  hand-in-hand  with  Christ. ' ' 

Ouldsbroom  burst  upon  these  reflections  with  noisy 
scorn,  and  the  ancient  supported  him.  They  wrangled 
over  Birdwood 's  soul  with  some  warmth,  while  the  shep- 
herd mounted  his  pony  and  struck  ofi^  to  the  Moor. 

He  did  not,  however,  return  home  directly.  His  busi- 
ness took  him  to  Stannon  Farm,  and  in  half  an  hour  he 
arrived  there  to  speak  with  Quinton  Crymes.  The  men 
talked  together  for  a  while;  then  Henry  went  indoors  to 
drink  a  glass  of  cider. 

"My  sister  be  within,"  said  Quinton.  "She's  walked 
over  from  Hartland  at  my  wish,  to  see  Gertrude.  There 's 
another  coming.  You  know  hoAV  'tis  with  my  poor  wife. 
She  gets  cruel  low  at  these  times,  and  believes  that  each 
one  is  going  to  be  the  death  of  her,  and  leave  me  a  widow - 
man  and  the  childer  without  a  mother's  care.  But  I  tell 
her  that,  after  five  successes,  there's  no  fear  of  failure." 

"Certainly  not.  She's  all  right,  though  how  you  can 
see  this  swarm  getting  thick  as  bees  round  you  and  fear 
nought.  I  don 't  understand. ' ' 

"  'Tis  nothing,"  answered  Crymes.  "They  come  grad- 
ual and  take  their  places.  I  ban't  in  the  least  troubled 
for  'em.  I  don't  turn  a  hair  for  one  of  'em.  No  good 
being  a  God-fearer,  like  me,  if  you'm  going  to  fret  your 
gizzard  about  your  offspring.     They'm  the  Lord's  work, 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  143 

not  mine.  I  do  my  appointed  part  by  'em  and  look  for 
Him  to  do  His.  Why,  I  might  so  well  fret  about  having 
six  as  Ouldsbroom  do  about  having  only  one.  But  I 
know  my  place  better. ' ' 

Unity  was  just  leaving  as  Birdwood  appeared. 

They  had  not  met  for  a  considerable  time,  and  spoke 
with  friendship  but  no  particular  cordiality. 

''If  you'll  bide  a  minute  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  the 
shepherd.  "Haven't  seed  you  for  a  month  of  Sun- 
days. ' ' 

"Be  quick  then,"  she  answered.  Then  she  turned  to 
her  brother. 

"I've  cheered  her  up,"  she  declared.  "  'Tis  the  same 
old  story :  she  l3e  going  to  die,  of  course,  this  time.  'Tis 
your  second  boy  do  fret  her  most,  I  believe.  Samuel's  a 
little  cross-pot  of  a  child  and  he's  spoiled.  You  ought 
to  whip  that  boy,  else  he'll  whip  you  come  he  grows  up. 
But  Jane's  a  beauty.  I  wish  that  babby  was  mine.  A 
dinky,  chubbv  cheel,  and  I  can 't  pass  her  without  kissing 
her." 

"More  can't  I."  declared  the  father.  "Jane's  my 
favourite  of  the  lot.  She  crows  like  a  bantam  of  a  morn- 
ing— a  sweet  babe,  I  assure  'e ! " 

Birdwood  drank  his  cider,  assured  Gertrude  that  he 
had  never  seen  her  looking  better,  and  then  walked  away, 
with  his  pony  on  one  side  of  him  and  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom 
upon  the  other. 

For  some  time  they  said  nothing;  then  he  asked  a 
question. 

"I  suppose  you  don't  see  it  different?  But  I  needn't 
ask." 

She  showed  impatience. 

"No,  I  don't — I'm  a  sane  woman,  whatever  else  I 
may  be." 

"Devil  doubt  that.  I  was  only  thinking  of  your  hus- 
band and  the  future  of  you  all. ' ' 

' '  So  was  I.  You  always  forget  the  boy  and  his  future. ' ' 

"Perhaps  it  might  work  out  better  for  his  eternal 
future  if  'twas  known." 
,    "You  beat  me,"  she  said.    "Sure  never  was  two  men 


144  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

in  one  skin  afore!  Sometimes  I  think  you  like  my  hus- 
band now  better  than  you  like  me." 

"  'Twouldn't  be  strange  if  I  did,  would  it?  Cast  your 
mind  back  a  bit,  Unity — for  a  change.  I  know  you  haven't 
got  much  use  for  the  past  as  a  rule.  'Tisn  't  in  your  nature, 
and  maybe  you've  more  reason  than  most  to  keep  your 
eyes  off  it;  but  still,  there  'tis,  and  you  must  remember 
that  men  don't  live  on  air  where  women  are  concerned. 
You  used  me  to  please  yourself  and  then,  when  I " 

"For  God's  sake  drop  all  that!  What  would  you 
have  had?" 

"I'd  have  had  you,"  he  said.  "I'd  have  had  you  a 
little  bit  nearer — for  a  little  bit  longer.  You  dropped  me 
rather  short  and  sharp  ten  year  back.  You  thought  I 
didn  't  see  it.    But  I  saw  it  very  clear. ' ' 

"Haven't  I  heard  that  often  enough?" 

"Perhaps  you  have." 

"And  didn't  I  make  my  side  clear  too?  What  does 
it  all  matter  now  anyway?" 

"Nothing  now — of  course.  Only  a  man's  temper 
changes  and  his  anger  wears  out.  Perhaps  I  do  like 
Philip  better  than  you.  'Twouldn't  be  odd.  We've  all 
changed,  you  see — all  but  him.  You  like  your  son  better 
than  anything  on  God's  earth.    You  don't  deny  that?" 

"  I  've  never  tried  to  hide  it. ' ' 

"But  I'm  no  more  to  you  than  the  stone  that  helps 
you  over  the  stream." 

"  'A  man's  temper  changes' — 'twas  your  word  a  min- 
ute ago,"  she  answered.  "And  a  woman's  may  do  the 
like.  We  did  wrong — awful  wrong — the  pair  of  us.  But 
the  wrong  can't  be  undone  without  doing  worse  wrong 
now.    Surely  you  see  that  ? ' ' 

"I  see  how  you  always  argue  for  self.  And  I  see  how 
you  always  did.  You  threw  me  over  for  him,  because  of 
his  money ;  and  then,  when  no  children  came,  you  threw 
him  over  for  me,  because  of  your  own  desires.  But  I 
myself  was  never  nothing  much  to  you,  for  all  your  soft 
glances  and  whispers.  When  you  'd  got  what  you  wanted 
— what  then? — you  turned  pious  and  taught  my  child 
Bible  stories,  and  told  me  that  we  'd  done  wickedness  in  the 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  145 

land  and  must  spend  the  rest  of  ovir  lives  making  up  for 
it.  'Twas  convenient  to  turn  good  then,  when  you'd  got 
all  you  wanted  out  of  being  bad.  Don't  you  see  what  a 
damned  hypocrite  you've  been?" 

"What's  the  sense  of  this  now?  I'm  weary  of  going 
over  it  again  and  again  if  you  are  not.  If  'tis  true  I  'm  a 
hypocrite — what  then?  Don't  I  smart  without  you  rub- 
bing salt  into  the  wound?" 

"  'Twas  your  fault  that  I  harp  on  it  to-day,"  he  an- 
swered. "  'Tis  the  things  you  said  a  bit  ago  brought  it 
all  up.  God  knows  I  think  of  it  as  seldom  as  I  can.  I've 
sworn  to  you  never  to  tell  him,  though  I'm  tempted  ter- 
rible to  break  my  oath  sometimes,  when  I  see  the  man 
fighting  so  hard  to  win  over  my  frosty  child.  Phil's 
worth  the  pair  of  us.  And  you  said  just  now  to  your 
brother  how  you  wished  you'd  got  a  little  one  like  his 
babby.  And  that  made  me  look  back  too,  and  set  me 
thinking.    Now  I  '11  go. ' ' 

"And  don't  you  quarrel  with  me,  Henry,"  she  said 
more  gently.  "Granted  I'm  a  hypocrite  and  worse,  re- 
member I  pay.  Remember  that  life  ban't  a  bed  of  roses 
for  me  neither.  To  marry  the  wrong  man  and  hide  it 
for  ten  years  takes  some  doing — yes,  and  brings  the  grey 
into  a  woman's  hair,  I  can  tell  you.  Don't  grudge  me 
the  boy;  and  don't  grudge  him  what  will  be  his.  And 
don't  think  I  care  nothing  about  you.  Can  a  woman 
forget  the  father  of  her  child?" 

They  parted  then  without  another  word  from  him. 

A  sound  he  did  make  in  answer  to  her  last  question — a 
sort  of  inarticulate  grunt,  half  amusement  and  half  scorn. 
Then  he  rode  abruptly  away,  and  left  Unity  with  a  hearty 
contempt  in  her  mind  for  his  fond  recollections.  The  past 
to  her  was  past  indeed ;  but  she  had  imagination  sufficient 
to  perceive  the  different  standpoint  of  the  man.  From  a 
vanished  year  she  had  gleaned  what  was  more  to  her  than 
her  own  life;  he  had  won  nothing  but  revenge  long 
foundered  in  bitterness — a  revenge  that  had  turned  vipon 
him,  fouled  his  existence,  grown  up  into  a  pestilent  jungle 
round  about  him,  and  hopelessly  hidden  the  pathway  that 
once  he  thought  to  tread.  Revenge  is^nly  food  for  the 
strong:  it  had  poisoned  Birdwood. 

10 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  boy  Tiger  by  some  accidents  of  character  found  no 
enemy  at  Hartland.  Philip  frankly  liked  him  from  the 
first,  and  Unity,  glad  to  please  her  husband,  was  friendly 
to  the  child  and  began  to  seek  for  him  a  permanent  home 
and  regular  work.  But  meanwhile  Tiger,  as  he  was  now 
universally  called,  had  won  a  stronger  ally  than  the  mas- 
ter himself.  Martin  rejoiced  exceedingly  in  the  sudden 
advent  of  this  playfellow.  To  have  another  young  thing 
under  the  same  roof  with  him;  to  be  able  to  practise 
those  arts  of  teaching  and  improvement  that  belonged  to 
his  nature — this  addition  to  life  was  very  pleasant  to 
Unity's  child.  She  perceived  it,  and  when  she  did  get 
the  promise  of  a  good  home  for  the  unfriended  boy,  it 
was  too  late.  Martin  wept  bitterly  at  the  thought  of 
separation ;  Philip  also  raised  many  objections.  Tiger 
had  already  become  useful.  He  possessed  a  good  nature 
and  a  strong  arm.  It  struck  Philip  that  his  amiability, 
physical  pluck,  and  genial  spirit  would  well  serve  the 
shyer  and  colder  disposition  of  Martin.  This  he  did  not 
say  to  his  wife,  knowing  that  a  comparison  of  such  a 
sort  might  annoy  her  into  antagonism;  but  he  stood 
strenuously  for  the  establishment  of  Tiger  at  Hartland, 
and  the  boy  himself,  assuming  the  utmost  ferocity  his 
freckled  face  could  pretend  to,  declared  that  he  would 
stay,  and  that,  if  sent  off,  he  should  come  back  again. 

Martin's  cousins  also  welcomed  him,  though  Tiger  at 
this  stage  of  his  existence  affected  a  large  contempt  for 
girls.  The  children  often  met  through  summer  days  and 
played  their  games  at  Hartland  Tor  under  Martin's 
ledge,  or  in  the  ruined  sheepfold,  or  among  the  Stone 
Men's  ruins  on  the  hillsides  of  Stannon. 

146 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  147 

A  little  hut  circle  here  was  regarded  by  Maggie  and 
Jacky,  Minnie  and  Samuel  Crymes  as  Martin's  special 
property.  It  stood  to  them  as  a  place  of  serious  rites  and 
solemn  celebrations.  Here  Martin  played  at  church, 
read  from  his  prayer-book  and  made  the  other  children 
sing.  The  boy  would  even  preach  sometimes,  until 
Sammj^  Crymes  laughed  or  cried,  as  the  case  might  be, 
and  broke  down  the  illusion. 

On  a  half-holiday  Martin  and  Tiger  went  off  to  meet 
the  former 's  cousins  and  perform  a  most  important  cere- 
mony. One  or  two  other  children  from  the  national 
school  at  Postbridge  also  promised  to  be  present  at  '  Mar- 
tin's  church,'  and  the  child  himself  felt  greatly  elated. 

Some  washing  fluttered  on  the  thorn-bushes  above  the 
farm,  and  Unity's  boy  helped  himself  from  it  to  one  of 
his  own  night-shirts. 

"  'Twill  look  properer,"  he  said. 

"  'Twill  be  solemn  and  holy  like  if  you've  got  white 
on,  though  there  bau't  enough  arms  for  you  to  hide  your 
face  in,"  declared  Tiger. 

They  were  going  to  the  old  barrow  to  baptize  Tiger. 
It  was  a  spot  of  sepulture  from  which  the  mortuary 
mound  had  long  since  vanished.  An  outer  ring  of  stones 
still  stood,  and  in  the  midst  a  ruined  kistvaen  lay.  Mar- 
tin decreed  that  the  largest  stone  of  the  ruin  was  an 
altar;  while  the  others  furnished  seats  for  the  congre- 
gation and  himself. 

Evidences  of  an  ancient  track  or  stream-way  ran  im- 
mediately behind  the  old  barrow,  and  thence  Minnie 
Crymes,  the  second  girl  of  Quinton  's  family,  now  brought 
water  in  an  old  meat-tin.  She  was  a  little,  pretty  child, 
with  something  delicate  and  dainty  about  her.  Her 
small  head  seemed  as  a  flower  upon  its  stalk.  Her  face, 
like  a  bud  newly  opened  upon  the  miracle  of  life,  dis- 
played ever  a  look  of  surprise.  Minnie  was  indeed  al- 
ways wondering.  Her  mother  declared  that  with  '  I  won- 
der' she  began  every  utterance.  Maggie  belonged  to  a 
different  order.  She  was  a  plump,  hearty  girl,  and  loved 
eating.  Of  the  boys  Samuel  had  a  bad  reputation  as  one 
prone  to  be  difficult;  while  Jack,  the  elder,  resembled 


148  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Maggie  in  face  and  soul.  The  children  were  a  blend  of 
their  parents,  save  Minnie,  who  had  harked  back  to  some 
unremembered  ancestor  for  her  nature,  or  was,  as  her 
father  proudly  called  her,  '  a  rare  sport. ' 

The  fifth  child  of  the  Crymes  family  was  also  present, 
in  Maggie's  arms,  and  half  a  dozen  other  children  had 
tramped  over  from  Postbridge,  being  bribed  to  attend  the 
ceremony  by  promises  of  cake  at  Stannon  afterwards. 
Martin  had  long  been  Minnie 's  hero.  Everything  that  he 
did  was  the  right  and  proper  thing  to  do;  and  she  was 
always  wondering  what  he  would  do  next. 

While  the  two  boys  from  Hartland  walked  along,  the 
younger  arranged  the  ceremony. 

"  'Twill  be  'Baptism  of  such  as  are  of  riper  years,'  " 
he  said,  "because  you  can  talk  and  have  got  your  wits. 
But  I  wish  you'd  light  upon  another  name.  Everybody 
did  ought  to  have  two  names  at  least." 

''One's  enough  for  me." 

"Then  Minnie  be  your  woman  gossip,  and  Jack  will 
stand  for  a  godfather,  and  if  Billy  Meadows  do  come  up, 
as  he  promised,  he  can  stand  for  t'other." 

They  arrived  presently,  and  Martin  looked  blank. 

"Billy  ban't  here,"  he  said,  "and  none  of  t'other 
boys  are  old  enough." 

"I  don't  want  no  godfathers,"  declared  Tiger. 

Then  he  pointed  to  the  hill. 

"There's  Mr.  Sleep  creeping  along.  Shall  us  ask 
him?" 

Martin,  however,  refused. 

"We  won't  have  no  growed  people.  'Twould  spoil  all. 
I'll  be  t'otlier  godfather  myself.  'Tis  quite  allowable; 
because  when  Mrs.  Crymes  had  her  last  child  christened, 
parson  stood — didn't  he,  Maggie?" 

"Yes,  he  did,  Martin." 

Martin  donned  his  night-shirt  and  directed  the  congre- 
gation.   None  had  brought  prayer-books  save  himself. 

The  rite  proceeded  laboriously  with  some  interruptions. 
Once  a  flock  of  feeding  geese  came  hissing  near  the  bar- 
row and  made  some  small  children  cry;  once  Sammy 
Crymes  flung  a  stone  at  a  rabbit  that  suddenly  popped 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  149 

up  on  the  outskirts,  of  the  ceremony.  Martin  shortened 
the  service  a  good  deal  and  began  at  the  address  to  the 
'  Well-beloved. '    He  then  put  the  question : 

"  'Dost  thou  renounce  the  devil  and  all  his  works,  the 
vain  pomp  and  glory  of  the  world,  with  all  covetous  in- 
stincts of  the  same  and  the  carnal  desires  of  the  flesh,  so 
that  thou  wilt  not  follow,  nor  he  led  by  themf  " 

' '  Sure  and  sure  and  double  sure ! ' '  answered  Tiger 
heartily. 

Martin  was  mildly  annoyed. 

"Hush!"  he  said.  "I  made  you  rehearse  it  all  the 
way  here.    You  know  that's  wrong'." 

"Sorry,"  answered  Tiger.  "I  forgot.  Let's  see — I 
know — '/  renounce  them  all.'  " 

Anon  ]\Iartin  whispered  to  Minnie,  as  he  had  seen 
clergymen  whisper  at  baptisms,  and  heard  from  her  the 
name. 

"  'Tiger,  /  baptize  thee  in  the  Name  of  the  Father,  and 
of  the  8c/ti  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.    Amen.'  " 

The  boy  dipped  his  hand  in  the  meat-tin  and  drew  the 
symbol  of  his  faith  on  Tiger's  brow.  All  was  ordered 
with  the  utmost  gravity  and  seriousness,  and  the  earnest- 
ness of  Martin  acted  visibly  upon  the  other  children  and 
kept  them  attentive.  Even  Tiger  himself  was  impressed, 
and  declared  afterwards  that  he  felt  something  quite  out 
of  the  common  had  happened  to  him. 

^ '  'Tis  cruel  solemn, ' '  he  told  Martin  afterwards,  ' '  and 
I  hope  to  goodness  as  it  won't  take  the  fierceness  out  of 
me." 

Presently  all  the  children  knelt  and  said  the  Lord's 
Prayer.  Even  the  least  joined  in  this,  and  the  adjacent 
geese  contributed  a  triumphant  and  simultaneous  cack- 
ling, as  though  they  too  were  conscious  of  the  thing  that 
had  been  done. 

Martin  read  the  final  admonition,  and  then,  at  Tiger's 
wish,  the  ceremony  concluded  with  a  hymn.  The  words 
were  familiar,  and  IMinnie,  Maggie,  and  Jacky  sang 
them,  while  Tiger  played  the  tune  on  his  Jew's  harp. 
Martin,  however,  preserving  his  priestly  part  to  the  end, 
knelt  down  and  shut  his  eyes.     From  first  to  last  his 


150  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

actions,  attitude,  and  manner  showed  closest  attention  to 
his  model:  the  village  clergyman.  He  won  immense, 
quiet  pleasure  from  the  ceremony.  It  was  not  a  parody, 
but  rather  the  best  imitation  possible  with  this  material. 

' '  A  proper  bit  of  fun,  that ! ' '  said  Tiger  when  all  was 
over.  "Lord!  How  you  can  be  that  solemn-like,  Mar- 
tin! I  lay  you  was  itching  to  take  up  a  collection,  wasn't 
you?" 

"Now  let's  have  a  game  of  follow-my-leader — shall 
us?"  suggested  Sammy  Crymes.  "You  promised  us 
you'd  play,  Maggie,  if  I  was  good  and  sat  it  out." 

The  children  scattered,  drifted  to  the  valley,  and 
presently  all  arrived  at  Stannon,  where  milk  and  cake 
awaited  them. 


CHAPTER  V 

On  a  winter  day  Peter  Culme  called  at  the  shop  beside 
the  river  and  met  Gregory  Twigg  there.  The  innkeeper 
was  talking  to  Miss  Hext,  and  their  conversation  related 
to  the  master  of  Hartland. 

"  'Tis  with  all  men  as  it  is  with  him,"  said  Barbara, 
"but  much  more  with  him  than  most  men.  You  be  all 
more  childish  than  us  women.  You  never  quite  throw  it 
out  of  you,  like  we  do.  It  hangs  about  you  to  old  age  in 
your  love  for  sporting  and  revels.  We  pretend  to  care 
for  these  things  a  bit— to  pleasure  you — but  we  don't 
really.  We'd  sooner  be  home.  We  are  more  serious- 
minded  than  men." 

"Ah!  I'd  like  to  see  the  woman  that's  more  serious- 
minded  than  me,"  said  Mr.  Twigg. 

"Look  at  the  'Warren  House'  and  you  will,"  answered 
Barbara.  "As  to  Philip  Ouldsbroom,"  she  continued, 
"there's  a  man  who  be  younger  than  his  own  son.  He 
comes  in  this  shop  to  buy  him  some  childish  thing  and 
then  plays  with  it  himself,  because  the  child  won't.  And 
next  minute  he  curses  and  stamps  his  foot  on  the  toy. 
I've  seen  him  do  it." 

"  'Tis  all  along  of  his  vain  opinions,"  declared  Twigg. 
"  'Opinions,'  I  call  them;  but  you  can't  say  his  mind  is 
rooted  in  anything.  A  feather  in  a  gale  of  wind  is  that 
man;  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  his  wife,  he'd  have  been 
blown  to  perdition  long  since.  It  must  come  to  that. 
'Tis  only  a  question  of  the  Lord's  patience." 

"Still  preaching!"  said  Peter  Culme.  "Nature  will 
out  with  you  as  with  all,  I  suppose ;  but  don 't  you  know 

151 


152  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

your  company  better  than  to  tell  this  here  in  Miss  Hext's 
shop?" 

' '  Sow  enough  seed  and  some  will  grow, ' '  answered  the 
publican  calmly.  "I  don't  despair  of  anybody,  for  I've 
known  my  gift  of  words  win  people  terrible  fixed  in  their 
errors.    As  for  Ouldsbroom " 

He  stopped,  for  Philip  entered,  and  Tiger  with  him. 
The  farmer  was  excited  and  brought  news. 

' '  Have  'e  heard  this  gashly  come-along-of-it  to  Shaugh 
Prior?"  he  asked.  "Old  Baskerville's  only  son,  the  bell- 
ringer,  have  strung  himself  up  in  the  belfry!" 

"All  flesh  is  grass,"  said  Mr.  Twigg. 

"So's  sugar  and  bread;  but  you  don't  roll  your  eyes 
over  them,"  answered  Miss  Hext.  "  'Tis  for  that  girl 
that  flung  him  over — Mrs.  Lintern's  daughter,  poor 
young  man ! ' ' 

"His  opinions  were  parlous,"  declared  Twigg.  "  'Twas 
well  known  that  he  held  doubtful  ideas  and  cared  more 
for  ringing  tenor  bell  than  the  glory  of  Him  he  rang  it 
for.  Mark  Baskerville  was  an  atheist,  and  be  lost  for  it, 
I'm  afraid,  under  chapter  and  verse  of  the  Book.  Bible's 
clear  enough,  though  'tis  the  Church  of  England  fashion 
nowadays  to  pretend  plain  English  ban't  plain  English. 
If  you  want  naked  Bible,  you  must  come  to  us." 

"He  was  a  very  good  young  fellow  and  never  hurt  a 
fly  in  his  life,"  said  Ouldsbroom.  "Everybody  liked 
him ;  but  you,  out  of  your  narrow,  frost-bitten  heart,  can 
damn  him  off-hand." 

"Not  me,  neighbour.  Damnation  be  God's  business, 
not  man's.  'Tis  the  case  of  a  young  fellow  strong  in 
works  but  weak  in  faith." 

"It  takes  all  sorts  of  tidy  folk  to  make  your  hell,  no 
doubt,"  said  the  farmer  scornfully. 

"Many  men,  many  manners,  and  mostly  evil,"  replied 
Gregory ;  ' '  but  there 's  only  one  sort  in  heaven,  rest  sure, 
Philip  Ouldsbroom." 

"And  that's  your  sort  I  suppose,  sir?"  asked  the 
debonair  Tiger  respectfully. 

Mr.  Twigg  regarded  him  with  commiseration. 

"I'm  happy  to  believe  so,  my  poor  boy,"  he  answered. 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  153 

''You  rim  out,"  said  Philip.  "Us  don't  want  you 
here  listening  to  this  twaddle.  You  can  get  down  to  the 
river  and  play  till  I  call  'e. " 

Tiger  departed,  and  Mr.  Twigg  went  out  after  him. 

' '  How  about  the  testimonial  ? ' '  asked  Culme. 

"There  again,"  ansAvered  Ouldsbroom,  growing  calm. 
' '  Ban 't  my  fault,  for  I  've  done  all  I  can  and  still  will  do ; 
but  the  people  ban't  tumbling  over  one  another  to  start 
it,  and  that 's  a  fact ;  and  as  for  bailiff,  he  don 't  intend  to 
do  a  thing.  I  put  it  to  him,  and  he  said  he'd  so  soon 
start  a  testimonial  for  his  turkey-cock  as  for  Twigg. ' ' 

"That's  what  he  gets  by  all  his  nonsense.  And  I'm 
right  glad  the  thing  be  going  to  fall  through,  for  it  may 
open  his  eyes  to  his  puffed-up  silliness,"  declared  Peter. 

"More  like  to  our  ingratitude- — so  he'll  call  it.  How- 
ever, I'll  see  here  and  there.  There's  no  great  harm  in 
the  man,  apart  from  his  pious  drivel,  and  a  good  feed 
and  a  bit  of  music  one  night  at  the  'Ring  o'  Bells'  would 
cheer  life  up  a  bit  these  dull  days.  I  dare  say  old  Med- 
licott,  their  pastor  at  the  chapel,  would  lend  a  hand. ' ' 

"He'll  be  wanting  a  send-oft'  himself  soon,"  foretold 
Miss  Hext.  "He's  nearly  done.  He  was  in  here  yester- 
day— a  nice,  old,  kindly  man,  and  not  so  full  of  non- 
sense as  most  of  his  sort.  But  he's  nearly  fought  his 
fight.  We  had  a  very  sensible  bit  of  talk  about  Job. 
He  knows  it  by  heart  a 'most,  so  we  met  on  common 
ground. ' ' 

"I  read  it  more  than  I  did,"  said  Philip.  "There's 
things  come  home  to  you  gradual  as  you  get  older.  Each 
year  shows  me  a  bit  more  sense  in  what  Job  says  to  they 
lantern-jawed,  owl-eyed  fellows  that  was  the  worst  of 
his  plagues,  in  my  opinion.  Martin  pipes  it  out.  'Tis 
funny  to  hear  such  terrible  things  in  his  little  cock- 
sparrow  voice.  I  laughed  aloud  last  Sunday  night  while 
he  twittered  out  they  tremendous  terrors  in  chapter  ten. ' ' 

"Do  he  get  to  understand  you  closer?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head,  looked  at  Culme,  and  signified  a 
desire  for  silence.  Peter,  however,  withdrew  a  moment 
later  and  then  the  farmer  answered : 

"No,  no,  Barbara.     You  know  the  answer  to  that. 


154  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

He'll  never  understand  me.  His  heart's  too  wise,  I 
reckon — or  else  too  small." 

''Don't  think  it.  'Twill  grow  with  the  rest  of  him. 
God  makes  and  man  shapes.  There's  a  lot  yon  can 
do." 

"And  don't  I  try?  Ban't  I  always  at  him?  Good 
powers,  Barbara!  If  he'd  only  take  a  bird's  nest  some- 
times, or  break  down  a  wall,  or  come  in  your  shop  and 
steal  a  sugar-plum  when  you  wasn  't  looking — anything — 
anything  to  earn  a  whipping  and  make  me  feel  closer  to 
him.  His  eyes — so  steady  and  quiet — his  little,  good, 
childish  thoughts— damnation — starvation,  I  tell  you  ! 
I  comed  across  the  very  thing  in  your  book  a  bit  agone, 
and  laid  it  up  in  memory.  You'll  mind  the  words,  of 
course.  'Can  the  rush  grow  up  without  mire?  Can  the 
flag  grow  without  w^ater?'  And  can  a  man's  heart  go 
on  loving  his  child  without  a  bit  of  love  back?  'Twill 
wear  out — 'twill  cool  off.  And  yet  how  can  I  say  such 
things?  He's  different  from  me.  Perhaps  he  feels  too 
and  hides  it  for  shyness — eh,  Barbara  ?  It  may  be  there 
—  'twill  show  presently.    I've  a  right  to  think  that?" 

"Every  right.  Keep  your  eye  on  his  mother,  and  re- 
member the  boy  was  made  out  of  her.  That's  what 
fathers  so  oft  forget.  She  don't  wear  her  heart  on  her 
:-"leeve;  yet  show  me  the  man  with  a  wiser  wife  than 
you've  got.  The  child's  hers  so  well  as  yours — hers  more 
than  yours  even,  as  often  falls  out.  But  you  don't  quar- 
rel with  her  for  being  different  from  you,  so  you 
shouldn't  quarrel  with  him." 

"He'll  come  nearer  belike  as  he  sees  more  of  life  and 
gets  more  knowledge?" 

"Why  shouldn't  he?  I've  known  men — the  best  sort 
too — grow  younger  as  they  grow  older." 

"That's  just  what  I  could  wish  for  him.  You'm  al- 
ways hopeful,  my  dear.  And  so  be  I,  for  that  matter. 
And  never  found  it  fail  me  yet.  But  there's  a  sort  of 
cold  gets  round  my  mmd  when " 

A  little  girl  rushed  into  the  shop  and  set  the  bell 
jangling. 

"Please,  please,  mister.  Tiger's  failed  in  the  river " 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  155 

'*Ah!"  said  Philip,  *' Martin  never  failed  in  the  river 
— and  never  will." 

He  hastened  out  to  find  the  drenched  and  dwarfed 
Tiger  just  crawling  like  an  otter  out  of  four  feet  of 
water. 

"Crool  sorry,"  said  the  boy.  "I  was  showing  Billy 
Meadows  and  Tom  Dury  that  I  could  jump  across  from 
thicky  stone  to  thicky  stone.  They  dared  me,  and  I  went 
for  it  and  missed. ' ' 

Billy  Meadows  and  Tom  Dury  were  dancing  on  the 
bank  and  rejoicing  at  Tiger's  downfall. 

"Nip  along  home  and  get  they  clothes  off.  We'll  go  in 
the  shop  another  time." 

"Wait!"  cried  Tiger.  "I  can't  be  no  wetter  than 
what  I  be.  Let  me  have  another  d— d— dash  for  it, 
master ! ' ' 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  licked  his  hands, 
assumed  his  fiercest  frown,  and  jumped  again.  This  time 
he  just  managed  to  hold  on  to  the  further  rock  with  hands 
and  toes.  Then  he  shouted  triumphantly  at  the  other 
boys. 

"There!  And  now  let's  see  if  any  of  you  have  got 
p — p — p — pluck  for  it!" 

Then  he  took  his  coat  and  set  off  at  a  run  beside  Oulds- 
broom. 

"That'll  show  'em!"  he  said,  "and  if  they  t — t — try 
they'll  fall  in  and  be  drownded,  because  they  ain't  got  my 
fierceness.  When  I  dropped,  the  water  fetched  me  off 
my  le — le — legs,  but  I  wouldn't  go  under.  I  fought 
against  it.  I  hope  to  God  my  Je — Je — Je — Jew's  harp 
won 't  get  rusty. ' ' 

His  teeth  began  to  chatter,  and  Philip  took  off  his  own 
coat  and  wrapped  it  round  the  boy. 

"You'll  catch  it  come  you  get  home,"  he  said. 

"Missis  be  terrible  kind  most  times  when  you'm  not 
there,"  answered  Tiger.  "That's  because  I  work  so 
hard." 

' '  She  knows  work  when  she  sees  it. ' ' 

"I  wish  you  was  my  father  and  her  was  my  m — m — 
mother,"  said  Tiger  earnestly. 


156  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

"Do  you?" 

Tiger  considered,  and  trotted  forward.  Suddenly  a 
great  idea  struck  him. 

' '  I  suppose  now  you  never  happened  to  have  a  li  '1  boy 
back  along  and  forgot  un,  mister?  Because  if  you  had, 
and  the  boy  was  lost,  I  might  be  him ! ' ' 

"  'Tis  a  very  fine  idea;  but  I'm  afraid  no  such  thing 
ever  happened  to  me." 

"Well,  be  it  as  'twill,"  summed  up  Tiger,  "I  lay  my 
father  weren't  half  such  a  proper  good  sort  as  what  you 
be." 

' '  How  d  'you  know  that  much  ? ' ' 

' '  Why,  'cause  he  'd  never  have  gone  and  left  me  by  the 
river  to  starve,  for  all  he  knowed.  But,  all  the  same, 
mind  you,  I  wouldn't  have  starved — I  ban't  that  sort — 
too  fierce  for  that.  I'd  have  lived  on  b — b — blackberries 
and  such  like,  and  made  friends  wi '  the  foxes. ' ' 

"Perhaps  you'll  come  across  your  father  yet,  one  of 
these  days." 

"If  I  do,  I  shan't  be  none  too  civil  to  the  man,"  said 
Tiger.  "And  if  he  thinks  to  t — t — take  me  away  from 
you  and  make  me  work  for  him,  I  won't  go.  I'll  never 
leave  you  no  more — never  so  long  as  I  live — no  more 
than  your  dog  wouldn  't. ' ' 

"I  wonder,  now,  how  true  that's  like  to  be?"  asked 
the  man. 


CHAPTER  VI 

From  no  obvious  quality  in  natural  things  may  kindred 
qualities  with  certainty  be  inferred.  The  East  wind 
freezes  a  man's  bosom,  yet  around  him  flings  a  garment 
of  atmosphere  to  augment  earth's  loveliness;  the  West 
wind  salutes  him  with  warmth,  yet  strips  the  world  stark 
and  suffers  no  sorcery  of  air  made  visible  to  cover  her. 
Eurus  may  bear  a  scythe,  but  he  robes  the  land  in  vesture 
of  mingled  magic  and  mystery ;  while  gentler,  franker 
Zephyr  reveals  the  mother-naked  truth  about  each  far 
horizon,  each  ambit,  aud  each  article  of  many-membered 
earth. 

On  a  day  in  August  the  Moor  had  receded,  grown  dim, 
and  taken  upon  itself  the  enchantments  of  the  East  wind. 
Detail  departed  from  distance,  and  the  waste  swept  ridge 
on  ridge  and  hollow  upon  hill,  in  semblance  of  grey  and 
silver  clouds,  that  rolled  upon  the  sky,  so  that  they  might 
not  surely  be  separated  from  it.  The  wind,  with  most 
delicate  vapour,  most  tender  tones  of  pearl  and  azure, 
wrapped  heath  and  granite  in  a  milky  lustre,  robbed 
the  sternest  rock-mass  of  its  contours,  and  leavened  the 
waste  with  the  medium  of  its  own  opalescent  colour. 
The  lesser  furzes  took  it,  and  the  heath ;  the  boulder  was 
bluer  for  it,  and  the  fading  splendour  of  the  fern  more 
dim  where  the  brake  spread  vipon  the  hills.  Colours 
swam  together  at  the  touch  of  this  Orient  breeze,  and  a 
melting,  diffused  quality  of  mingled  tints  was  manifested 
through  all  things. 

The  heat  was  tempered.  A  fret  of  sunny  foam  drifted 
along  above  the  cloud-banks,  and  into  the  air  beneath 
Hartland  Tor  ascended  long  feathers  of  earth-born  smoke 
from  fires  in  a  field.  They  rose  in  fulvous  columns,  then 
bent  together  westerly,  thinned,  lost  their  own  sulky 

157 


158  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

hue  and  took  the  colour  of  the  day  upon  their  vanishing 
volume. 

About  the  fires  were  assembled  the  life  of  Oulds- 
broom's  farm.  All  hands  advanced  the  work  of  peat- 
burning,  for  Philip  was  'denshiring'  a  croft. 

To  'denshire'  or  to  'Devonshire'  land  (for  the  folk- 
word  belongs  to  the  county,  as  the  operation  does)  is  a 
simple  process  of  agriculture  still  practised  before 
ploughing  on  spongy  and  barren  soil.  The  turf  is  pared 
from  the  surface  of  the  ground,  gathered  in  heaps,  and 
reduced  to  ashes.  The  transformed  matter,  rich  with 
chemical  change  of  fire,  is  then  spread  once  more,  and  the 
earth,  thus  invigorated,  will  bear  roots  or  even  corn,  be- 
fore it  is  laid  under  grass  again. 

Martin  and  Tiger  worked  as  busily  here  as  the  men, 
and  with  tools  called  'tormentors'  broke  up  the  turf  or 
dragged  it  to  the  smouldering  piles. 

Towards  evening  Unity  brought  up  a  great  cloam  jug 
of  hot  tea,  and  Tiger  ran  for  mugs  and  the  basket  of 
bread-and-butter  that  waited  for  him.  He  had  taken  his 
place  now  in  the  life  of  Hartland,  and  Philip  held  him 
useful  in  many  ways ;  Avhile  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom.  conceded 
that  the  boy  earned  his  salt,  and  was  satisfied  for  her 
son's  sake  that  he  should  remain. 

After  tea  had  been  taken  in  a  corner  of  the  field  to 
windward  of  the  smoking  earth,  Philip  dismissed  the 
children  and  told  them  that  their  day's  work  was  done. 
They  scampered  off  to  the  river,  crossed  it,  and  climbed 
the  opposite  hill  upon  the  way  to  a  favourite  haunt. 
Tiger  had  found  the  natural  chamber  where,  eleven 
years  earlier.  Unity  and  Henry  Birdwood  were  wont  to 
meet.  He  had  decided  that  a  den  worthy  of  him  m.ight 
here  be  made,  and  with  Martin's  help  had  dragged  rocks 
hither,  built  up  the  entrance,  and  suffered  to  remain  a 
passage  only  wide  enough  for  himself  and  his  companion. 

"Us '11  go  to  the  holt  and  play  games,"  said  Tiger. 
"I  left  two  gert  pieces  of  that  figgy  pudden  there  ten 
days  agone.     'Tis  time  'twas  ate  up,  I  reckon." 

They  considered  the  game  to  be  played,  and  the  elder 
made  a  startling  proposition. 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  159 

'^I'll  pretend  as  I'm  bosky-eyed,*  like  your  father  was 
Saturday  night,  and  you  can  talk  to  me,  same  as  missis 
talked  to  him." 

But  Martin  declined  the  suggestion. 

"  'Twould  be  a  very  good  game  if  'twasn't  father  and 
mother;  but  being  them,  us  better  not  do  it.  We  wasn't 
supposed  to  hear  nothing  about  that  row,  and  if  you 
hadn't  come  in  the  washhouse,  where  I  was  listening 
behind  the  door,  you  never  would  have  knowed.  'Tis  a 
terrible  bad  thing  to  be  drunk. ' ' 

"I'm  sure  he  seldom  goes  like  it,  and  he's  that  awful 
funny  when  his  voice  gets  up  in  his  head  and  he 
squints " 

' '  Shut  up  ! "  said  Martin  hotly.  ' '  I  won 't  have  you 
laugh  about  it.  Drink  be  nought  to  laugh  at,  but  a  dis- 
grace to  the  nation.  You  heard  my  mother  say  so,  and 
that  was  her  word — •'  a  disgrace  to  the  nation  and  a  wicked 
sight  for  children.'  And  nothing  could  my  father  say, 
because,  bad  though  he  was,  he  knowed  'twas  true. ' ' 

' '  Every  growed  man  takes  a  drop  too  much  off  and  on. 
'Tis  the  manhood  in  'em,"  argued  Tiger. 

"  'Tis  the  devil  in  'em,"  answered  Martin;  "and  don't 
you  never  stand  up  for  wickedness  afore  me,  Tiger,  be- 
cause I'll  quarrel  with  you  if  you  do." 

"I  won't  have  no  woman  reigning  over  me  when  I'm 
a  man,"  answered  the  other  doggedly. 

"If  you  dare  to  mean  my  mother!"  answered  Martin 
in  a  rage.  Then,  suddenly,  he  broke  off,  hopped  on  one 
leg  and  uttered  a  cry.  From  his  lifted  foot  a  glittering 
ribbon  of  black  and  silver  fell  and  slid  fast  along  the  way 
to  the  nearest  heather.  He  had  set  his  foot  on  an  adder 
and  been  bitten  by  it. 

Tiger,  not  knowing  what  had  happened,  pursued  the 
snake,  struck  it  with  his  stick  and  broke  its  back. 

"I've  killed  the  gashly  thing,  and  that's  twopence 
from  your  father.  Twopence  he  gives  for  every  snake 
us  can  show  him. ' ' 

"But — but — oh.  Tiger,  it's  stung  me!"  cried  Martin. 

*  Bosky-eyed — Drunk. 


160  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

He  had  sat  by  the  way  and  turned  down  his  stocking. 
The  mark  of  the  viper 's  fang  already  showed  livid  above 
his  ankle. 

"Aw  jimmery!"  cried  Tiger.  "Come  on,  start  going 
— us  must  run  for  dear  life !  But  don 't  you  get  feared. 
'Twill  be  all  right  if  'tis  taken  in  time." 

Martin  had  turned  very  white,  and  stared  in  front  of 
him  without  making  any  effort  to  move. 

"Come,  come!"  cried  the  elder.  "For  the  Lord's 
sake  doan  't  'e  sit  glazing  there !  Us  must  get  back  to 
your  father  this  instant  moment." 

The  wounded  boy  rose  and  hastened.  Tiger  took  his 
hand  and  hurried  him  along. 

"We  must  trust  in  God,"  said  Martin. 

"Not  yet — not  yet,"  answered  the  other.  "There's  a 
lot  of  things  to  do  afore  we  come  to  that.  They'll  make 
a  terrible  pucker  about  it.  But  trust  your  father  to  save 
'e!" 

Martin  faltered. 

"It  do  smart  cruel,"  he  said.  "I  be  going  fainty 
like." 

"Don't  think  of  it;  don't  think  of  it.  Here,  I'll  put 
my  arm  round  you.  Now  us '11  get  on  brave.  When  us 
crosses  the  river,  I  '11  shout,  and  your  father  will  hear  me 
and  come  running." 

They  hastened  on,  but  Martin  needed  the  elder's  arm, 
for  he  was  growing  very  sick.  Anon  Tiger  bawled  aloud, 
and  a  man  heard  him  and  told  Ouldsbroom. 

"They  childer  be  shouting  for  you  in  the  valley,  mis- 
ter," he  said.  "They'm  frightened.  Maybe  there's 
something  amiss." 

Philip  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves  at  a  fire.  He  dropped  a 
fork  and  started  running  where  the  man  pointed.  Then 
he  saw  Tiger  supporting  the  other,  and  hastened  to  them 
as  fast  as  he  could. 

They  told  him  what  had  happened,  whereupon  he 
acted  promptly  but  vainly.  He  tore  down  Martin's 
stocking  and  revealed  a  limb  swollen  and  of  darkish 
colour.  Then  he  set  his  lips  to  the  bite  and  sucked  and 
sucked.    Martin  had  a  handkerchief,  and  his  father  tied 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  161 

it  tightly  as  a  ligature  above  the  wound.  It  was,  how- 
ever, far  too  late  for  such  remedial  measures. 

"Run  on,"  he  said  to  Tiger.  "Run  home  and  tell 
missis.  I  '11  bring  the  boy ;  then  you  get  on  the  boss  and 
go  like  a  flame  of  fire  for  doctor.  Ride  bare-ridged,  and 
ride  like  hell.    This  will  show  what  you  be  good  for !" 

Tiger  departed  at  his  best  speed,  and  long  before  Philip 
had  carried  Martin  to  his  mother,  the  elder  boy  was  rid- 
ing as  hard  as  he  could  go  to  Princetown. 

The  question  was  what  amount  of  venom  the  sufferer 
had  received;  the  event  alone  would  prove  it.  Philip's 
efforts  were  too  late  in  any  case,  for  the  poison  had 
travelled  through  the  boy 's  system  long  before  he  sought 
to  suck  it  out. 

Unity  acted  otherwise,  stripped  the  child,  put  him 
between  the  blankets  of  her  own  bed,  and  gave  him  some 
warm  brandy  and  water.  She  kept  a  cheerful  face,  as- 
sured him  that  he  would  soon  be  better,  relieved  his 
anxiety  and  hid  her  own.  Presently  she  fomented  the 
wound  with  hot  water  to  lessen  the  pain  and  reduce  the 
swelling. 

The  tension  for  both  adults  was  terrific.  They  hung  on 
Martin's  fluttering  eyelids  and  gauged  his  colour  with 
straining  eyes.  Now  he  grew  paler,  and  their  hope  fainted ; 
now  he  flushed  a  little,  and  they  marked  the  change  and 
looked  at  each  other  and  nodded.  Philip  wanted  to 
drown  the  boy  with  spirits ;  Unity  would  not  let  him  do  so. 

They  whispered  of  familiar  cases,  and  took  heart  in  the 
recollection  that  none  they  knew  had  proved  fatal.  But 
the  youth  of  Martin  mad'-  uuem  tear.  Unity  was  the  more 
hopeful  and  far  the  more  self-contained.  The  man 
roamed  everywhere,  like  a  mad  thing,  and  forced  himself 
away  and  killed  time  for  minutes  together;  then  he 
rushed  back  again  in  dreadful  fear  that  it  might  be  to 
hear  worse  news.  He  absented  himself  within  sight  of  the 
entrance,  and  each  minute  that  Unity  did  not  come  made 
him  more  hopeful ;  but  suddenly  his  heart  cried  to  him 
to  return,  and  he  hurried  indoors.  She  meantime  kept 
by  the  bed  with  her  hand  in  Martin's.  He  was  very 
silent  and  drowsy,  but  he  told  her  the  pain  was  less,  and 

11 


162  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

she  fancied  that  after  an  hour  had  passed  the  swelling 
sank  a  little.  The  child  continued  very  collected  and 
presently  inspired  her  with  hope. 

"I  thought  I  was  going  to  die,"  he  said;  "but  now  I 
don 't  think  I  am.    Where 's  father  ? ' ' 

"  He 's  close.  I  '11  tell  him  what  you  said,  Martin.  'Twill 
do  him  good." 

"I'm  afraid  he's  terrible  put  out." 

"He's  all  right.    Don't  you  be  talking." 

She  left  the  child  for  a  moment  and  went  to  the  door ; 
whereupon  Philip,  who  was  tramping  round  and  round 
in  a  narrow  circuit,  felt  a  great  pang  shake  him  to  the 
roots  of  his  being,  and  rushed  to  her. 

"Not  worse — not  worse;  for  God's  sake  don't  say  it!" 

"No — no — better,  I  do  believe.  He  says  he  ban't 
going  to  die.    I  do  think  he's  going  on  well." 

Philip  came  in  again  to  see  the  boy. 

"That's  a  brave,  dear  chap,"  he  said,  trying  to  grin. 
"Of  course  you'll  be  all  right.  'Tis  nothing  but  a  sting. 
Us '11  all  forget  it  to-morrow.  And  we'll  go  down  to 
Barbara's  and  get  the  best  toys  in  the  shop — by  God  we 
will!" 

"Where's  Tiger?"  asked  Martin. 

"He's  off  to  fetch  Dr.  Dickinson.  They'll  be  here  in 
a  minute,  I  reckon.  I'll  just  go  off  and  see  if  they'm 
coming. ' ' 

He  stooped  and  kissed  Martin  and  hugged  him;  then 
he  went  out. 

Ignorant  of  facts,  Unity  and  Philip  pinned  hope  on 
swift  arrival  of  the  doctor.  They  did  not  know  in  such 
a  case  that  chance,  and  not  belated  medical  skill,  must 
determine  the  boy's  life.  Danger  of  death  was  long  past 
before  the  medical  man  arrived  at  Hartland. 

Martin,  however,  was  still  sick,  and  since  the  day  had 
now  sunk  to  night,  the  old  physician  yielded  to  Philip's 
entreaty,  and  stopped  until  next  morning  at  the  farm. 
Brandy,  hot  soup,  hot  bricks  to  his  feet,  continued  fomen- 
tations, and  some  good  sleep,  found  the  patient  stronger 
in  the  morning ;  and  then  the  medical  man  went  to  Oulds- 
broom,  where  he  stood  dishevelled  at  his  door  in  the  first 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  163 

grey  of  the  dawn,  and  declared  Martin  beyond  any  cause 
for  fear. 

"Say  it  again;  say  it  again!"  cried  Philip.  ''Safe — 
safe,  doctor!" 

"Safe  as  a  church!  I'll  send  a  tonic — in  fact,  I'll 
bring  it  this  evening. ' ' 

The  father  was  distrustful. 

"You'm  a  little  bit  feared,  else  you  wouldn't  come 
again. ' ' 

"Not  at  all.  But  come  I  shall,  to-night,  on  my  way 
back  from  Moreton.  I'm  due  there  to-day,  and  will  get 
the  physic  made  up  there.  He's  a  tine,  strong  lad,  with  a 
good  constitution  and  good  pluck.  Don't  you  have 
another  care  for  him.    He's  very  nearly  well  again." 

Philip  shook  the  doctor 's  hand  thrice ;  then  he  stalked 
away  alone  to  the  top  of  Hartland  Tor,  and  flung  him- 
self down  there  with  a  full  heart. 

The  regular  life  of  the  farm  began  beneath  him.  He 
saw  the  cows  saunter  in  a  row  off  the  Moor,  and  wait  at 
the  farmyard  gate  for  the  milker.  He  heard  the  dogs, 
marked  Tiger  at  his  work,  and  noted  a  fan  of  blue  smoke 
deepen  above  the  chimney. 

Then  his  soul  went  out  to  the  man  who  had  done  all, 
as  he  supposed ;  and  he  hurried  down  the  hill  and  called 
to  Tiger. 

' '  I  want  to  make  a  fine  gift  to  him — poultry  and  cream 
and  the  best  we've  got — to  doctor.  'Tis  only  a  fortnight 
afore  their  time.  You  catch  a  couple  of  they  geese  and 
kill  'em,  Tiger,  and  tell  William  to  get  on  his  apron  and 
pluck  'em." 

Tiger  had  not  been  invited  to  describe  the  adventures 
of  yesterday,  but  now  he  did  so,  and  his  master  com- 
mended him. 

"Nobody  alive  could  have  done  it  quicker,  and  I'll 
never  forget  it  to  your  credit ;  I  promise  you  that.  You 
fode  very  clever  indeed,  and  I  'm  terrible  pleased,  and  so 's 
missis. ' ' 

When  Dr.  Dickinson  prepared  to  start  an  hour  later, 
he  found  the  back  of  his  trap  laden  with  the  best  that 
Ouldsbroom  could  gather  from  dairy  and  farm. 


164  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"My  dear  fellow,  what's  all  this?  I'm  not  going  to 
market, ' '  laughed  the  old  man. 

"Not  a  word,  master;  'tis  nothing  at  all.  I  wish  the 
geese  was  packed  with  golden  eggs,  for  you've  earned 
'em.  And  you'll  be  back  to  have  a  look  at  him  before 
night?" 

"I  will;  and  if  I  must  take  this  gift,  I'll  take  it  then, 
on  my  way  home.  It's  ridiculous  nonsense,  Oulds- 
broom. ' ' 

Somewhat  abashed  to  exhibit  his  present,  Philip 
obeyed,  and  withdrew  much  produce  from  the  back  of 
the  trap. 

Dr.  Dickinson  protested  anew  at  the  sight,  for  it  repre- 
sented the  value  of  a  five-pound  note. 

"Ridiculous  man!  And  all  for  nothing!  It  wasn't 
I  saved  him.  Fifty  doctors  couldn't  have  saved  him  after 
such  a  long  delay.  'Twas  your  wife  you've  got  to  thank, 
if  anybody,  under  Providence." 

He  drove  off,  the  hour  then  being  half-past  six.  Philip 
found  himself  hungry  and  cried  out  for  food. 

The  meal  proved  a  little  unquiet,  because  Unity  had 
seen  what  was  taken  out  of  the  doctor's  carriage. 

"If  you'd  knowed  all  he  told  me,  you'd  have  under- 
stood that  the  danger  was  passed  long  and  long  afore 
he  came"  she  said.  "There  was  no  cause  for  all  that. 
He'll  send  in  his  bill  just  the  same." 

But  her  husband  laughed. 

"Let  it  go,  and  think  of  the  boy.  I'd  got  to  make  an 
offering  of  some  sort  to  somebody  when  I  heard  Martin 
was  all  right.  'Twas  bursting  out  of  me  to  do  it.  'Tis 
all  to  the  good  anyway ;  and  what 's  a  few  birds  and  eggs 
and  a  bit  of  butter  against  Martin?  And  don't  think 
I'm  forgetting  you.  'Tis  all  thanks  to  your  wonderful 
cleverness,  Unity,  that  he's  alive  this  minute,  no  doubt; 
and  if  I  don't  do  something  to  mark  it  for  you,  call  me 
daft.    And  Tiger  too.    He  done  his  best." 

She  knew  it  idle  to  argue  with  him  at  this  moment. 
The  long-drawn  strain  was  relaxed,  and  each  felt  the  re- 
bound according  to  their  natures.  He,  after  a  few  deep 
and  silent  moments,  fled  to  drown  himself  in  praise  of 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  165 

others,  and  in  giving  right  and  left;  she  looked  into  her 
own  soul  and  was  chiefly  concerned  with  wonder  at  the 
wealth  of  the  love  that  was  harboured  there.  She  had  sur- 
prised herself  during  these  hours.  She  was  not  aware 
that  such  deep  places  in  her  heart  existed,  or  that,  ex- 
isting, they  were  full  of  IMartin.  She  yearned  still  to  be 
holding  him  in  her  arms,  to  feel  her  great  breast  bend- 
ing— the  pillow  under  his  head.  She  could  not  be  out  of 
his  presence  through  that  day.  Each  mouthful  that  he 
took  was  food  to  her ;  each  drop  that  he  drank  was  drink 
to  her;  and  when  he  laughed  again,  it  seemed  that  the 
goal  of  her  struggle  was  reached.  Then,  indeed — the 
first  time  for  many  a  long  year — she  wept  and  hid  her- 
self from  him. 

During  a  week  Martin  slept  with  his  mother,  and 
Philip  made  a  bed  on  the  floor.  Then  Dr.  Dickinson  pro- 
nounced the  boy  well  again.  A  boil,  however,  gathered 
on  the  snake-bite  and  had  to  be  poulticed.  IMartin  went 
lame  for  a  while,  but  each  day  lessened  the  trouble,  and 
he  was  soon  able  to  frequent  his  favourite  haunts.  He 
showed  the  effects  of  the  poison  in  want  of  energy  and 
general  malaise ;  but  that  also  lifted  before  three  weeks 
were  past,  and  nothing  remained  save  memory  of  his 
great  experience  and  consequent  fame.  For  some  days 
he  was  a  hero  among  his  cousins  and  his  friends. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Philip's  business  took  him  from  home  for  a  week  after 
Martin's  illness,  but  it  was  understood  that  he  should 
receive  a  frequent  letter  to  tell  of  the  boy 's  progress.  He 
had  been  away  three  days,  and  on  the  morning  of  the 
fourth,  Martin,  at  Unity's  suggestion,  was  writing  to 
Ouldsbroom  himself.  The  first  letter  that  he  had  ever 
written  caused  the  child  great  interest.  He  had  made  two 
false  starts  and  spoilt  a  third  sheet  with  a  blot,  but  all 
went  well  with  the  next  attempt,  and  there  came  a  visitor 
just  in  time  to  admire  it  before  it  was  put  into  an  en- 
velope and  sealed  up. 

Henry  Birdwood  called.  He  was  not  aware  that  Philip 
had  left  home,  and  arrived  with  news  of  certain  ponies 
that  were  to  be  sold. 

' '  Two  of  'em  I  know  he  '11  gladly  buy — and  give  money 
for, ' '  said  the  shepherd.  ' '  Martin  here  can  put  it  in  his 
letter,  and  tell  him  that  Mr.  Coomber  at  Dousland  is  open 
to  a  price  for  that  mare  and  foal  he  fancies. ' ' 

Unity  beckoned  Birdwood  behind  her  child's  back. 
She  signalled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  'Twill  be  time  to  name  it  to  father  when  he  comes 
home,"  she  said.  "Now  you  can  run  along  out,  Martin, 
and  play  in  the  byre,  for  'tis  pouring  wet.  I'll  send  the 
letter  with  mine." 

The  child  went  out,  and  she  turned  to  Henry. 

"Don't  say  nothing  more  about  they  ponies.  I'm 
sick  and  tired  o'  ponies.  They'm  eating  up  too  much  of 
our  money  and  bringing  too  little  back.  'Tis  all  very 
well  in  a  small  way;  but  'tis  like  chicken  and  bees  and 
other  things :  if  you  go  into  'em  in  a  large  way  you  lose 
by  it." 

166 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  167 

* '  He 's  got  plenty  to  spare. ' ' 

"Has  he?  First  I've  heard  of  it  then.  You  show  me 
the  man  who's  got  plenty  to  spare  and  I'll  show  you  a 
fool.  Anyway,  'tisn't  so  with  us.  Every  penny's  out  to 
interest  that  I  could  get  from  him,  and  ready  money's 
tight.  And  with  a  man  like  my  man,  the  tighter  the 
better.  Things  ain't  quite  so  prosperous  of  late  on  the 
Moor,  as  you  know.  And  I  won't  have  no  more  ponies 
anyway.  He's  away  now  about  some  stock  down  in  the 
in-country,  Plympton  way,  and  he 's  promised  me  faithful 
not  to  go  a  penny  too  far.  You'd  marvel  if  you  heard 
his  hopefulness  still,  and  him  up  home  fifty  years  old." 

"I  suppose  he  was  properly  terrified  over  the  child?" 

"He  was.  I  never  want  to  go  through  nothing  like 
that  again." 

"Strange — so  was  I.  Couldn't  sleep  for  thinking  of 
him.    And  you  too,  of  course?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "But  the  mark  it's  left  on  me  be 
inside,  not  out.  He  goes  ofi;  to  boarding-school  next 
spring.  To  the  grammar-school  at  Bovey.  'Twill  be  a 
pinch,  but  we  're  of  a  mind. ' ' 

"What '11  he  do,  I  wonder?" 

"  'Tis  too  soon  to  guess ;  but  he's  fond  enough  of  farm- 
ing, and  my  husband 's  will  is  that  he  follows  on  at  Hart- 
land.  Yet  I've  a  fancy — hid  close  enough — that  come  he 
learns  far  above  our  learning,  and  sees  the  higher  sort 
of  life,  and  gets  sense,  he'll  seek  out  something  different 
and  grow  tired  of  our  rough  ways. ' ' 

"You'd  be  glad  if  he  did?" 

"Perhaps  so.  Can't  say  that  I  want  to  end  my  days 
in  this  moil.    How  be  you?    Better?" 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  said.  "Tis  only  rheumatics. 
They'll  lift  again." 

"You'm  so  thin  as  a  herring.  Why  don't  you  eat 
more  ? ' ' 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"That  boy's  built  on  the  same  pattern,  I  fancy." 

"No,  no,"  she  answered  hurriedly.  "He's  stuggy — 
same  as  me.  He's  thin  now  along  of  his  illness.  He'll 
soon  fatten  again." 


168  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

"Don't  you  believe  it.  He  may  be  like  you  in  his 
nature,  and  I  hope  'twill  prove  so,  but  he's  got  my  lean 
carcass  and  lank  hair." 

She  showed  annoyance. 

"Don't  be  telling  that  stuff.  You  might  so  soon  say 
t'other  child — that  foundling — was  like  my  husband." 

"So  he  is — in  a  general  way.  You  watch.  Tiger  will 
be  more  to  Philip  presently  than  Martin  is,  because  he's 
built  on  Phil 's  own  pattern.  And  I  'm  glad  of  it,  for  he  '11 
be  a  comfort  if  he  stops. ' ' 

"How  you  do  delight  to  prick  me!"  she  cried. 

"As  to  that,  'tisn't  so.    But  I  wish  to  God  you'd " 

The  door  opened  suddenly  and  Tiger  came  in  with  a 
message  from  the  farm. 

Unity  was  glad  of  the  interruption,  and  remained  no 
longer  with  Birdwood. 

"Don't  name  the  ponies,  there's  a  good  man,"  she 
said.  ' '  He  will  be  back  Monday,  and  then  we  shall  count 
to  see  you.  And  do,  for  goodness'  sake,  look  to  your 
clothes  a  bit  more.  We'm  coming  to  the  wet  time  now, 
and  you'll  go  and  be  sick  if  you  don't  take  better  heed." 

He  went  his  way,  but  left  her  unquiet,  and  she  slept 
ill  that  night. 

Birdwood  was  grown  indifferent  to  his  own  existence, 
and  the  only  real  interests  in  his  life  centred  about  Hart- 
land.  He  felt  a  dreary  discomfort  in  the  presence  of 
Ouldsbroom  and  knew  that  this  long,  living  lie  was  very 
hard  upon  his  old  enemy.  Yet,  to  tell  the  trvith  now  had 
meant  issues  so  far-reaching  that  he  shrank  from  it.  His 
life  was  a  hollow  and  cheerless  one.  He  did  not  cleave 
to  life.  In  some  moods  he  felt  impelled  to  lay  all  bare 
before  Ouldsbroom;  then  he  considered  Unity  and  the 
future  of  his  child.  He  asked  himself  whether  it  was 
for  his  own  peace  or  for  Philip's  that  he  felt  prompted 
to  speak;  and  he  assured  himself  that  mean  personal 
motives  alone  urged  him.  All  ways  pointed  to  silence, 
and  so  he  kept  it.  But  Unity  began  to  fear  whether  he 
would  persist  in  silence.  She  knew  that  he  had  no  per- 
sonal stake  in  life,  no  personal  ambition  of  future  pros- 
perity to  make  him  a  coward.    He  grew  more  dangerous. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  169 

In  the  dark  that  night  she  reflected  on  his  indifferent 
health,  and  considered  how  much  easier  her  life  would 
be  if  Birdwood  and  his  gioom  were  out  of  it.  She  felt 
him  like  an  ever-present  cloud,  from  which,  struggle 
forward  as  she  might,  there  was  no  emergence. 

Ouldsbroom  returned  presently,  and  a  carrier  set  him 
and  his  carpet  bag  down  beside  the  river  at  Postbridge. 
He  took  farewell  of  the  driver,  invited  the  man  to  Hart- 
land  when  time  and  chance  allowed  it,  and  then  entered 
the  post  office  before  going  home. 

He  had  something  to  give  Barbara,  and  something  to 
show  her.  The  gift  was  a  bottle  of  old  brandy  from 
Plymouth. 

"Physic,"  he  said.  "You're  not  so  young  as  you  was, 
my  old  dear,  and  I  know  that  a  thimble  of  this  stuff  of  a 
night  will  help  you  to  sleep  comfortable." 

' '  Oh,  Phil — was  there  ever  one  like  you,  you  silly  man  ! 
But  thank  you.    I  '11  keep  it  against  a  rainy  day. ' ' 

"  'Tis  good  ancient  drink,  mind,  else  I  wouldn't  have 
fetched  it.  And  read  this  here — a  letter  from  my  son 
that  he  wrote  in  ink.  First  ever  he  wrote,  bless  him! 
And  where  shall  you  find  a  child  of  his  age  could  do 
better?" 

Barbara  put  on  her  glasses  and  read  the  little  letter. 

^'My  dear  father, — 

"I  hope  you  are  well.  I  am  quite  well.  Mother  is 
quite  well.  Tiger  found  the  snake  that  stung  me  where 
he  killed  it.  He  has  taken  off  the  skin  and  tried  to  stuff 
it  with  moss  for  a  surprise  for  you.  It  looks  rather 
humpy  and  smells  horrid.  But  I  hope  you  will  say  you 
like  it,  hecause  he  has  taken  a  great  deal  of  trubble  with  it. 
'^Hoping  that  this  reaches  you  as  it  leaves  me  at  present, 
''I  am  your  loving  son, 

"Martin  Ouldsbroom." 

"There!    What  d'you  think  of  that?"  asked  Philip. 

' '  'Tis  a  nice  little  letter  as  you  could  wish, ' '  said  Bar- 
bara.   He  folded  it  up  and  put  it  in  his  pocket-book. 

"I  shall  keep  that  letter  so  long  as  I  live,"  he  declared. 
"And  look  here,  Barbara;  don't  you  remember  what 


170  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

I've  said  about  the  boy  now  and  again.  'Twas  all  stuff 
and  nonsense,  spoken  out  of  a  fool 's  mouth.  Good  God ! 
shall  I  be  jealous  of  my  own  flesh  and  blood?  Because 
he's  a  clever  child  and  be  going  to  have  a  big  brain,  shall 
I  fret  and  fume  like  a  zany  and  wish  he  was  more — more 
like  my  own  silly  self  ?  No,  no.  I  'm  sorry.  I  lay  he  '11 
welcome  me  home  now  like  the  warm  sun — I  lay  he  will. 
I  've  bought  him  a  book  down  to  Plymouth  with  coloured 
pictures — lions  and  missionaries  and  niggers — a  good 
thought,  eh?" 

"A  very  good  thought  indeed.  I'm  glad  to  know  it, 
because  it  shows  that  you  begin  to  feel  he's  not  just  the 
same  as  every-day  children." 

"That's  it.  Now  I  haven't  got  no  more  use  for  such  a 
book  than  a  fox  in  a  bush — and  never  had;  but  I  know 
'twill  be  better  than  a  box  of  soldiers  or  the  like  to  him. ' ' 

"  'Twas  very  clever  of  you  indeed." 

"Not  that  I  can  take  all  the  credit.  Me  and  my  wife 
have  done  a  lot  of  talking  on  the  subject  of  the  boy  since 
his  illness,  you  may  be  sure,  and  she  let  a  bit  of  light  into 
me.  She  understands  him  better  than  I  do— what  don't 
she  iinderstand,  for  that  matter  ?  A  serious  mind  hap- 
pens in  some  children.  Not  often,  thank  God,  but  you'll 
see  it  off  and  on;  and  chance  has  just  thrown  such  a 
mind  into  my  boy,  though  you  'd  never  have  looked  to  see 
it  in  any  child  of  mine.  But  there  'tis ;  and  of  course,  as 
a  man  of  my  age,  I'm  serious-minded  too,  and  must  take 
things  as  they  are,  not  fret  because  they  ban't  as  I'd 
have  'em." 

"Never  heard  such  sense,"  said  the  postmistress. 
"Where  have  you  been  to  pick  up  such  wisdom?" 

"Alone,"  he  answered.  "All  alone  with  my  thoughts. 
First  night  away  I  got  along  with  a  lot  of  fellows  to 
Plympton  Fair  and  took  a  drop  too  much.  But  after  that 
I  minded  my  business  and  kept  apart  and  sober  as  a 
judge.  And  of  a  night  I  thought  it  all  out  and  saw  where 
I  was  mistaken.  As  luck  would  have  it,  there  was  a  Bible 
in  the  bedroom  where  I  lodged.  And  I  had  a  good  dip 
into  your  book.  And  I  will  say  for  Job  that  you  never 
come  empty-handed  from    the    man.     There's   always 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  171 

something  to  catch  upon.  'Who  can  bring  a  clean  thing 
out  of  an  unclean?  Not  one.'  There's  truth!  And, 
knowing  that,  haven't  I  the  right  and  the  reason  to  be 
proud  of  getting  Martin?  Such  as  him  couldn't  have 
sprung  from  nothing  bad.  And  so  I  can  rate  myself 
higher  for  being  the  father  of  him — eh,  Barbara  ? ' ' 

"Surely;  and  I  hope  he'll  be  a  fine  fellow  and  the 
comfort  of  your  age  yet. ' ' 

' '  I  look  for  it  from  him.  I  'm  always  the  more  trustful 
when  I  go  away  from  home  for  a  day  or  two.  'Tis  worth 
it  for  the  thoughts  and  for  the  feeling  of  the  welcome 
that  grows  the  warmer  for  tarrying. ' ' 

' '  You  're  a  lucky  man,  and  doubly  lucky  to  know  your- 
self lucky.  That's  your  wisdom,  and  though  once  I 
never  did  think  you  'd  grow  up,  I  do  believe  you  're  begin- 
ning to  do  it.    You'll  be  a  man  before  your  son  yet!" 

He  laughed,  and  a  spaniel  came  out  from  behind  the 
counter  and  crept  on  his  belly  with  wagging  tail. 

* '  Not  a  patch  on  your  old  '  Sarah, '  ' '  said  the  farmer ; 
* '  but  a  good  enough  dog. ' ' 

"  'Sarah's'  been  dead  seven  year  to-morrow.  I  mind 
the  date  very  well.  How  the  years  be  racing,  Philip ! 
I  shan't  hold  on  much  longer.  I'm  getting  terrible 
shaky. ' ' 

"Don't  you  say  that.  I  won't  have  it.  I  won't  have 
you  go,  Barbara.  Don't  you  dare  to  think  of  such  a 
thing!" 

"The  time's  coming.  And  when  I  drop,  'tis  you  will 
have  to  see  me  into  earth  presently.  I  don't  want  no 
parsons  and  no  prayer-books." 

"I  won't  have  it,"  he  repeated.  "And  I  won't  have 
you  talk  about  it.  Stuff  and  nonsense!  Me  and  you 
are  the  sort  that  go  over  fourscore. ' ' 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Ouldsbroom  began  to 
talk  of  his  wife  again.  He  praised  her,  and  concluded 
with  these  words : 

"And  I  learn  more  from  Unity  than  what  she  says 
tome.  'Tis  her  life  that's  the  lesson.  But  we  can't  have 
everything,  and  at  fifty  we  begin  to  know  it,  if  not  be- 
fore.   She's  like  the  boy  in  some  ways:  they  ban't  quite 


172  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

able  to  understand  me,  you  know,  though  of  course  I 
understand  them." 

"  'Tis  the  boy  in  you  beats  'em,  no  doubt,"  said  Miss 
Hext.  "The  boy  in  man  beats  most  women.  Your  son 
will  never  run  after  hares  or  fret  till  salmon  fishing  be- 
gins again.  You  musn't  expect  it.  And  now  get  along 
back  to  'em.  And  thank  you  dearly  for  this  thought 
of  me." 

She  looked  into  his  face  and  marked  the  slight  changes. 
He  was  wrinkled  about  the  eyes  more  than  of  old,  and 
his  cheeks  were  a  little  heavier  and  looser.  He  wore 
whiskers  that  met  on  his  throat,  but  clean-shaved  his  lips 
and  chin.  His  hair  was  crisp  and  curly  as  ever,  but  shot 
with  grey;  his  blue  eyes  were  bright  and  the  home  of 
laughter  still. 

She  bade  him  'good-bye,'  and  watched  him  fling  his 
carpet  bag  on  to  the  crook  of  his  stick  and  go  up  the  val- 
ley. "  'Twill  all  blow  down  the  wind  when  the  fret  and 
cark  begin  again,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  'Tis  so  easy  to 
get  away  from  everybody  and  be  wise — all  alone.  The 
hard  thing  is  to  be  wise  with  life  and  them  you  love 
jostling  your  elbow." 

Two  small  figures,  long  on  the  lookout  for  the  farmer, 
marked  him  far  off,  and  now  came  hastening  down  the 
hill  from  Hartland.  Tiger  outstripped  Martin  by  many 
yards,  yet  some  secret  fineness  in  the  boy  stopped  him 
before  he  reached  Philip.  He  drew  up  while  yet  a  long 
way  from  Ouldsbroom,  and  let  the  other  go  first. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  children  were  making  holiday,  and  the  strength  of 
Hartland  and  Staunon,  with  reinforcements  from  the 
village,  had  gone  aloft  to  the  high  Moor.  The  business 
of  the  day  was  gathering  whortleberries;  the  pleasure 
of  the  day  consisted  in  a  picnic — all  alone,  without  com- 
pany of,  or  interference  from,  any  grown-up  people. 

Maggie,  Minnie,  and  Martin  controlled  the  party,  and 
the  boys  carried  the  food,  while  to  Maggie's  lot  fell  a 
rather  heavier  burden  in  shape  of  her  small  sister,  Jane. 
A  dozen  children  in  all  set  out,  and  certain  homes  were 
left  strangely  silent  and  peaceful. 

Now  the  party  was  eating  and  drinking  high  on  the 
wind-swept  side  of  Siddaford  Tor.  Much  bread-and- 
cheese,  cake,  and  three  big  bottles  of  milk  made  the  meal ; 
then  Maggie  cried  out  at  the  poor  store  of  berries  as  yet 
collected,  and  called  upon  all  to  set  to  work  with  more 
energy. 

They  scattered  presently,  and  the  boys  roamed  far  and 
near,  while  the  girls,  with  greater  method,  picked  to- 
gether, and  Minnie  gathered  more  than  all,  though  she 
did  not  stray  fifty  yards  from  her  little  sister,  who  lay 
asleep  in  the  remains  of  the  picnic.  Martin  worked  in- 
dustriously, but  Tiger  did  not.  His  master  had  hinted  to 
him  to  keep  near  Martin  and  look  out  for  snakes,  so  he 
regarded  himself  as  on  a  sort  of  special  duty  and  prowled 
about  near  the  younger  boy.  They  talked  together  some- 
times and  noticed  the  familiar  things  about  them;  they 
called  the  girls  to  see  the  pad-marks  of  a  fox  in  a  mire ; 
they  collected  odd  treasures  to  be  taken  home.  IMartin 
got  a  quartz  crystal  and  a  piece  of  white  bog  heather. 

173 


174  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

He  put  the  flower  in  his  cap  for  his  mother.  The  boy 
Jacky  secured  hairy  caterpillars  and  prisoned  them  in 
a  match-box.    The  boys  played  and  the  girls  worked. 

Then  came  the  first  cloud,  and  Samuel,  a  child  of  un- 
social spirit,  accused  Martin  of  trespassing  upon  a  patch 
of  fruit  that  he  had  marked  for  himself.  Martin  denied 
it;  they  fought,  and  Samuel  fell  under  a  fierce  buffet. 
Then,  after  the  manner  of  his  kind,  he  retreated  in  tears 
to  a  neighbouring  knoll.  From  here  he  hurled  bad  words 
and  stones.  One  stone  hit  another  child,  and  sha 
shrieked.  Then  Tiger  leapt  forward,  chased  Samuel, 
caught  him  and  pummelled  him. 

The  incident  was  only  closed  when  the  time  came  for 
finishing  the  food.  Samuel  then  rejoined  the  company 
and  expressed  regret  at  what  he  had  done.  After  his 
share  of  cake  and  milk,  however,  he  did  evil  once  again, 
upset  two  baskets  of  whortleberries,  and  then  finally  fled 
to  return  no  more.  Tiger  and  Martin  desired  to  give 
chase,  but  Maggie  stopped  them. 

"Let  him  go,"  she  said.  "He's  cranky  to-day.  I 
knowed  he'd  be  wicked  when  we  started,  because  mother 
made  him  carry  a  basket." 

The  day  waned,  and,  under  a  sky  of  windy  blue  that 
lightened  to  a  blaze  above  the  Moor  edge,  the  children 
presently  set  out  to  return  home. 

A  strange  sunset  arrested  the  attention  of  the  elders. 
From  behind  a  long,  squat  cliff  of  cloud  the  sun  shot 
strong  rays  upward  and  downward.  They  vanished  in 
the  upper  blue,  save  where  one  broad  mass  of  lofty  va- 
pour caught  fire  from  them ;  and  below,  they  burnt  away 
the  horizons  of  the  earth  in  a  flaming  riot  of  splendour. 
The  light  fell  upon  many  peaks  and  ridges  and  clusters 
of  far-off  tors,  flung  to  the  edges  of  the  billowy  land; 
while  the  solitary  cloud  from  behind  which  all  this  glory 
escaped  seemed  scarcely  to  move,  but  stretched  inert  and 
sluggish  from  south  to  north.  It  had  a  snout  and  tail 
like  a  saurian,  and  crouched  gigantic  above  the  waste. 
Its  back  glowed  with  a  rose-coloured  crest. 

The  children,  bathed  in  ruddy  light,  lifted  their  eyes 
to  the  sky  as  they  tramped  along.     Their  baskets  were 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  175 

full  of  blue-black,  lustrous  colour,  and  their  fingers  and 
faces  were  smeared  with  purple  stains.  The  duns  and 
drabs  of  their  clothes  woke  to  radiance  in  the  sunset. 
Life  flashed  and  sparkled  in  their  eyes :  they  moved,  like 
fairy  things,  against  the  ragged,  red  gold  of  the  heath 
and  stones  that  made  the  way  all  bright. 

Tiger  it  was  who  marked  the  shape  of  the  giant  cloud 
and  called  attention  to  it. 

"If  her  ban't  like  a  gert,  monstrous  dragon — eh?"  he 
asked. 

"So  he  is  then — with  head  and  tail  and  all, ' '  declared 
Maggie. 

The  sun  began  to  sink  from  the  hinder  parts  of  the 
monster,  and  Martin  spoke. 

"There!  And  now  the  creature  have  laid  a  golden 
egg!"  he  said. 

The  surprise  of  the  simile  flung  them  all  into  a  fit  of 
laughter. 

' '  Well  done,  you ! ' '  cried  Tiger.    ' '  The  cleverness ! ' ' 

"Nobody  but  you  would  ever  have  thought  of  that, 
Martin,"  declared  Minnie. 

They  rivalled  each  other  in  making  likenesses  for  the 
cloud,  and  watched  it  until  the  sun  passed  behind  the 
hills. 

Then  a  man  overtook  them  from  the  Moor,  and  Henry 
Birdwood,  on  his  pony,  hoped  that  they  had  done  well 
with  the  berries.  They  showed  him  their  laden  baskets, 
and  he  applauded. 

"Where  might  you  be  going,  Mr.  Birdwood?"  asked 
Martin. 

"To  Princetown,"  he  answered.  "I've  got  a  cough 
that  keeps  me  awake  o'  nights,  and  won't  stop.  I'm 
tired  of  barking,  so  I'm  going  up  to  doctor  for  a  bottle 
of  physic. ' ' 

"Mother  would  give  you  so  good  a  thing  as  doctor, 
I'm  sure,"  said  Minnie.  "  'Tis  stufi:  she  got  a  recipe 
for  from  my  grandmother  long  ago ;  and  she  got  it  from 
a  wise  woman.  'Tis  very  nice,  too,  because  there 's  honey 
and  lemon  in  it." 

"So  'tis  then,"  added  Martin,  "for  I  had  some  last 


176  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

winter,  and  I  was  terrible  sorry  when  my  cough  went 
and  I  couldn  't  have  no  more. ' ' 

"I  lay  'tis  very  good,"  said  the  shepherd;  "but  my 
cough  do  come  from  down  below  somewhere  in  the  tubes. 
I  doubt  if  lemon  and  honey  would  reach  it. ' ' 

Minnie,  however,  felt  hopeful  that  her  mother's 
medicament  might  meet  the  ease. 

"I'll  bring  you  some  when  I  can  be  spared  to  come 
up  over,"  she  promised. 

The  man  thanked  her  and  spoke  little.  He  was  ill  and 
weary  of  his  days.  His  new  work  proved  arduous,  and, 
though  he  found  himself  likely  to  make  money  during 
the  following  year,  the  fact  had  no  spice  in  it  for  him. 
His  needs  were  frugal,  and  for  luxuries  he  eared  nothing. 

Henry  was  about  to  bid  the  children  'good-night'  and 
trot  forward,  when  Tiger  marked  the  approach  of  figures 
in  the  valley  of  Dart  beneath  them.  Young  eyes  trained 
in  these  wide  spaces  are  long-sighted,  and  the  identity 
of  the  approaching  people  was  not  for  a  moment  in 
doubt. 

"  Tis  mother  and  father!"  said  Martin. 

It  happened  that  Philip,  the  day's  work  done,  found 
himself  heartily  tired  of  a  silence  and  peace  that  had 
hung  like  a  cloud  on  Hartland  since  the  morning.  So 
he  went  to  his  wife  and  asked  her  to  come  with  him  and 
meet  the  children  as  they  returned  homeward. 

She  consented,  and  now  the  parties  fell  together,  and 
there  was  great  clatter  of  tongues  and  showing  of  tro- 
phies. Ouldsbroom  picked  up  Jane  Crymes  from  Mag- 
gie's arms  and  bore  the  little  thing  along;  beside  him 
marched  Tiger  and  Minnie,  while  the  others  came  behind. 
Presently  the  children  from  Stannon  and  Postbridge 
went  their  way  and  the  company  broke  up.  Then  Philip 
proceeded  to  Hartland  with  Martin  and  Tiger;  while 
Unity  fell  behind  and  walked  beside  Birdwood's  pony. 

The  boys  prattled  of  their  day  and  the  elder  lad  ex- 
plained how  sharp  an  eye  he  had  kept  for  serpents. 

"I  was  ready,  I  warn  'e,  mister!  But  not  one  did  I 
see.    I  doubt  there's  many  left  now." 

"Fewer  the  better,"  declared  Philip;  and  then,  as 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  177 

the  way  was  still  long,  they  asked  him  for  some  of  his 
pixy  stories.  For  these  he  was  famed  among  the  children, 
and  they  never  wearied  of  the  old  familiar  tales. 

"Tell  us  about  the  good  old  woman  and  the  tulips," 
suggested  Martin;  but  the  man  felt  not  in  humour  for 
story-telling. 

"I'll  list  to  you  now,"  he  said,  "and  tell  stories 
another  time.  The  pixies  be  all  gone  from  us  nowa- 
days, and  won't  never  come  back  neither.  That  there 
ding-dong  *  at  the  church  have  frighted  'em  away  for 
good  and  all." 

"Then  they  was  very  bad  pixies,"  declared  Martin, 
' '  and  I  'm  very  glad  they  've  gone. ' ' 

The  farmer  laughed. 

"When  you  get  a  bit  older,  you'll  see  there's  others 
beside  pixies  can 't  abide  the  bells, ' '  he  said.  ' '  You  must 
lam  to  be  large-minded  Martin." 

"If  your  father  don't  go  to  church,  that  shows  'tis 
proper  not  to  go, ' '  asserted  Tiger  stoutly. 

A  magpie  got  up  in  front  of  them  and  reminded  the 
boy  of  something  he  had  already  thought  upon. 

"Can't  say  why  'tis,  but  they  pies  do  always  put  me 
in  mind  of  parson  in  his  holy  robes, ' '  he  said. 

"How  so?"  asked  Philip,  and  Martin  showed  un- 
easiness. 

"Why,"  continued  Tiger,  "tis  the  way  his  reverence 
perketh  and  fluttereth  in  his  black  and  white.  And 
another  thing :  he  holds  his  head  like  the  bird  on  a  bough, 
looking  down  crafty  to  see  what's  doing.  'Tis  just  so  he 
counts  the  heads  while  his  tongue  be  at  the  sermon  verse. ' ' 

"You  oughtn't  to  say  such  things,"  answered  Martin 
hotly;  "and  you  wouldn't  say  'em  if  mother  could  hear 
you,  for  she'd  box  your  ears  for  it!" 

They  began  to  quarrel.  Both  were  weary  and  both 
unconsciously  suffered  in  the  anticlimax  of  a  good  day, 
long  looked  forward  to,  but  now  over  and  gone.  The 
farmer  silenced  their  shrill  arguments. 

"No  more  holidays,"  he  said.     "If  you  can't  abide 
friendly  except  on  work-days,  then  M'e'll  have  nought 
*  Ding-dong — Bell. 

12 


178  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

else.  Whatever  be  you  thinking  about,  Martin,  to  say 
such  cranky  things  ? ' ' 

Then  Ouldsbroom  preached  his  simple  gospel  to  them. 

''You'll  look  precious  silly,  the  pair  of  you,  if  I  double 
your  work  and  stop  your  play.  But  I'd  be  very  sorry 
to  do  that,  because  work's  only  the  half  of  life,  and  not 
the  best  half  neither.  I  only  work  to  make  the  play  taste 
better;  and  so  we  all  should.  Play's  nought  without 
work,  remember.  But  if  the  play  be  going  to  set  you 
two  by  the  ears,  I'll  have  no  more  on  it.  You'm  tired. 
Give  me  your  berries." 

He  took  both  their  baskets  and,  after  a  moment's  si- 
lence, Martin  made  amends. 

"Sorry  I  was  vexed,"  he  said.  "I'm  terrible  leg- 
weary.  ' ' 

"And  I'm  sorry  too,  and  'twas  more  shame  to  me 
than  you ;  because  I  ban 't  weary  and  never  was  knowed 
to  be  weary  in  my  life,"  declared  Tiger. 

Behind  them  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom  walked,  and  listened 
to  Birdwood.  He  told  how  Mr.  Sleep  had  gone  to  the 
workhouse. 

"Ned  explained  it  all  to  me  in  his  slow  way.  Time 
was  never  no  more  to  him  than  to  a  toad  under  a  stone. 
''You  see,  Henry  Birdwood,'  he  said,  'I'm  not  one  who 
leaps  before  he  looks.  I'm  pretty  well  known,  I  believe, 
to  be  cautious,  and  in  a  thing  like  this  I  wouldn't  be  rash. 
But  there  'tis;  I'm  growing  crookeder  and  crookeder 
with  rheumatics,  and  'tis  just  all  I  can  do  w'out  crack- 
ing my  bones  to  crawl  up  on  my  horse.  So  'tis  time  to 
stop ;  and  since  I  wasn  't  able  to  save,  and  haven 't  got  no 
friends,  I  must  come  down  on  the  parish.  Such  useful- 
ness as  lies  in  me  be  at  their  service.'  And  he's  gone. 
And  the  new  chap,  Jonathan  French,  is  hard  as  nails 
and  would  make  two  of  me.  I  promised  Ned  to  see  him 
now  and  again  when  'twas  possible.  I  told  him  that  very 
like  I'd  be  after  him  afore  long." 

"More  like  you'll  go  into  your  grave,"  said  Unity. 
"You'm  coughing  cruel  and  ought  to  come  away  from 
that  God-forsaken  hole  you  live  in. ' ' 

He,  however,  still  harped  on  his  old  colleague. 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  179 

' '  The  only  thing  that  troubled  Sleep  was  a  fear  they  'd 
make  him  go  to  church  instead  of  chapel.  He  had  ;i 
thought  that  all  English  workhouses  was  Church  of  Eng- 
land. But  Gregory  Twigg  explained  to  him  that  it 
weren't  so.  Greg  promised  him  a  Wesleyan  service, 
though  he  was  much  afraid  he'd  miss  the  full  flavour  of 
us  Little  Baptists." 

' '  Better  he  went  to  church  and  got  larger  ideas. ' ' 

The  man  laughed  without  mirth. 

"Don't  you  talk  that  stuff  to  me.  Keep  it  for  them 
who  are  in  the  dark.  Church  or  chapel's  all  one  to  us, 
I  reckon ;  and  if  you  said  your  church  tasted  better  than 
my  chapel,  I  wouldn't  believe  it.  We  shall  live  and  die 
in  a  dirty  lie,  and  that 's  all  to  be  said  about  us. ' ' 

She  flushed  deeply.  Until  very  recent  years  some 
cement  of  the  past  had  held  them  together,  though  from 
the  birth  of  the  child  her  attitude  had  changed  in  all 
particulars  of  their  past  intimacy;  but  now  the  ghost 
of  friendship  was  crumbled  away.  She  cared  no  more 
for  him,  and  she  knew  that  he  despised  her  only  less  than 
he  despised  himself. 

Birdwood  saw  her  colour  come,  but  regretted  not  that 
she  was  angered.  He  brooded  sometimes  on  the  past, 
and  had  long  ago  reached  the  conclusion  that  it  was  she 
rather  than  her  husband  who  had  ruined  his  life. 

"A  lesson  to  us,  that  man,"  he  said — "him  yonder, 
carrying  my  child's  basket.  I  feel  a  beastly  knave  when 
he's  by.  I) 'you  know  'twas  him,  and  not  Twigg,  got 
me  the  billet  I'm  holding  now?  Twigg,  in  his  grand 
way,  took  credit;  but  I  was  up  at  Princetown  with  the 
bailiff  last  week,  taking  over  some  papers,  and  I  heard 
then  that  but  for  Philip,  another  chap  than  me  would 
have  had  the  job.  And  never  a  word  to  me.  I'll  wager 
he's  forgot  that  he  did  it.  He'd  want  a  far  longer 
memory  than  he  has  got,  to  call  home  all  the  great,  big, 
kindly  things  he  does  for  us  small,  mean-hearted  people. 
I  never  knowed  his  like. ' ' 

"Better  he  thought  more  of  what's  due  to  his  home," 
she  said.  "I'd  much  wish  to  know  where  he'd  be  stand- 
ing but  for  me.     'Tis  my  thrift  and  pinching  and  wake- 


180  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

fill  night  and  grey  hairs  coming,  that  give  him  the 
chance  to  be  so  mighty  generous.  But  nobody  ever 
thanks  me  for  aught.  He'd  be  after  Ned  Sleep  in  a 
year  if  I  wasn't  here.  Yet  everything  must  be  just  so, 
and  the  boy's  going  to  boarding-school  in  six  months." 

"You'll  see  to  that." 

' '  I  shall  do.  If  there 's  one  thing  I  '11  screw  and  scrimp 
for,  and  take  no  denial  for,  'tis  that.  He  can  spend  on 
whims  and  fancies ;  I  '11  spend  on  my  boy 's  future.  Out 
of  this  he  shall  go,  to  get  larger  ideas  and  proper  educa- 
tion, whatever  happens." 

' '  Philip  thinks  the  same  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  he's  set  on  it  now.  Though  'twill  fret  him  to 
have  Martin  out  of  his  sight. ' ' 

' '  Not  more  than  it  frets  him  to  have  him  in  his  sight. ' ' 

' '  That 's  all  changing,  I  hope.  They  be  more  and  more 
understanding  and  friendly  since  the  snake  bit  Martin." 

"And  t'other  boy?" 

"He's  very  well.  He's  worth  his  keep,  anyway,  and 
Martin  be  fond  of  him.  My  husband  has  taken  to  the 
child  something  tremendous.  He'd  soon  ruin  him  if  I 
wasn  't  here.    Wanted  to  make  him  taste  beer  last  night. ' ' 

"Beer  will  be  Ouldsbroom's  downfall  yet,  if  you're 
not  careful." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  then  he  surprised  her. 

"  I  'm  beginning  to  think  as  I  get  old — for  I  'm  getting 
old  terrible  quick — I'm  beginning  to  think,  Unity,  that 
I'd  be  another  man  if  I  told  your  husband  the  truth 
about  that  child  and  cut  short  his  wild-goose  chase. ' ' 

You'll  say  that  once  too  often  to  me,"  she  answered, 
showing  her  teeth  through  her  lips. 

"Use  your  wits  and  see  it  as  I  do,"  he  replied.  "If 
the  boy  had  chanced  to  be  nearer  to  him  'twouldn't  have 
mattered  so  much.  If  he'd  been  like  that  nipper  you 
call  'Tiger' — a  free-handed,  hearty,  common  sort  of 
a  lump  of  a  boy — 'twouldn't  have  mattered  at  all;  but 
see  the  trick  fate's  played  us.  The  boy  ban't  even  so 
rough-and-ready  as  I  am.  He's  cruel  nice,  and  fond 
of  books  and  prayers  and  going  to  church.  He's  the 
spit  of  what  my  father  must  have  been  when  he  was 


THE   THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  181 

young — good  by  nature.  'Twould  be  easier  for  him  to — 
but  why  harp  about  it?  You  know  well  enough  how 
'tis.  Haven 't  you  traced  him  out  to  the  very  heart  1  And 
what  I  say  is  that  the  older  he  grows  the  farther  he'll 
drift  away  from  the  man  who  thinks  him  his  son. 
There'll  be  such  trouble  bred  of  this  that  I'm  doubtful 
if  I  can  live  and  see  it.  I  care  a  lot  more  about  Philip 
than  about  the  boy.  The  boy's  all  right.  He's  got  re- 
ligion and  your  common  sense.  He'll  be  a  burning  and 
a  shining  light,  whatever  happens.  'Twould  puzzle  him 
to  go  wrong  more  than  it  puzzles  your  husband  sometimes 
to  go  right. ' ' 

"And  what  about  me?    Don't  I  count  at  all?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "not  in  my  mind.  You've  always 
looked  damned  sharp  after  yourself,  and  always  will 
do.    I'm  not  troubling  about  you." 

She  gasped  with  indignation. 

"  Go  on, "  she  said.    ' '  Let  me  hear  what  else. ' ' 

"That's  all — I  only  warn  you.  You've  thought  of 
it  too.    I  wonder  what  you 'd  do  ? " 

He  laughed  sardonically,  and  his  laugh  turned  into 
coughing. 

"  'Do?'  "  she  answered.  "Deny  it:  that's  what  I'd 
do.  Would  he  believe  you  afore  me?  He'd  say  you 
was  mad — that's  all.    And  so  you  would  be." 

"How  if  I  pointed  to  the  boy  and  axed  where  he  got 

his  eyes  from,  and  his  thin  flank,  and  his ?    What  if 

I  made  him  see?  D'you  know  what  he'd  do?  He'd 
strangle  you  to  begin  with." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  and  saw  things  that  he  had 
never  seen  before. 

"And  you'd  like  to  strangle  me,  if  you  could — 
vx'ouldn't  you?"  he  asked. 

She  kept  her  temper  and  smoothed  her  face. 

"You've  changed  from  what  you  were,  Henry.  What 
have  I  done  to  make  you  want  to  ruin  me?" 

"  'Tis  what  you  haven't  done  belike.  You  have  every- 
thing your  own  way;  and  that  makes  a  weak  man  like 
me  a  bit  jealous  now  and  again.  'Tis  your  iron-strong 
will.     And  yet " 


182  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

She  began  to  feel  the  vital  need  for  winning  this  man 
away  from  his  own  thoughts. 

" I '11  see  more  of  you,  and  gladly, ' '  she  said.  ' ' There's 
plenty  of  reason  why  I  should,  for  that  matter.  You're 
ill — coughing  from  down  deep  by  the  sound.  I'll  come 
over  on  Thursday  afternoon  and  fetch  you  some  good 
stuff  for  your  throat.  See  that  your  man  be  out  and 
we'll  have  a  long  talk." 

He  concealed  his  amusement  at  her  tactics,  and  wel- 
comed them. 

"I  shall  be  very  glad." 

The  boys  and  Philip  had  stopped,  and  were  waiting 
for  them  at  Hartland  gate. 

''Here's  this  poor  man  coughing  his  soul  up,"  said 
Unity.  "I've  told  him  I'll  get  across  Thursday  with 
a  pint  of  herby  tea." 

"So  you  shall,  then,"  said  Ouldsbroom.  "And  take 
something  better  too.  If  you  wern't  a  fool,  Henrj^ 
you'd  have  got  a  woman  of  your  own  to  mess  over  you 
years  ago.  'Tis  madness  thinking  to  live  all  your  life 
without  one." 

Birdwood  laughed. 

"Wait  till  I  see  what  it  means  to  be  Moor-man  of  the 
Quarter.  And  as  for  physic,  I  'm  going  up  to  Princetown 
now  to  ax  doctor." 

"And  come  in  and  take  your  supper  with  us  on  the 
way  home." 

"Does  your  missis  second  that?"  asked  the  shepherd, 
and  Unity  assured  him  that  he  would  be  welcome. 

He  kept  the  appointment  therefore;  and  when  he  re- 
turned with  a  bottle  of  medicine  and  some  strong  advice 
upon  the  need  for  care,  he  found  Philip  reading  to  his 
wife,  while  a  cold  supper  waited  on  the  table. 

"  'Tis  the  twenty-eighth  of  Job,"  explained  Oulds- 
broom. "I  always  read  it  of  an  evening  when  I'm  in  a 
good  temper,  Henry.  There's  some  brave  things  in  it, 
and  bits  as  you  might  say  nobody  could  have  set  down 
without  they  knowed  Dartymoor!  'Tis  the  ways  of 
wisdom. ' ' 

"I  know,"  answered  Birdwood.    "But  what's  all  that 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  183 

to  you?  'The  fear  of  the  Lord  is  wisdom.'  What  fear 
of  the  Lord  was  ever  known  in  you  ? ' ' 

"But  'to  depart  from  evil  is  understanding' — that's 
the  last  word  of  the  chapter,"  said  Unity.  "We  know 
it  by  heart  very  near;  don't  we,  Philip?" 

She  looked  without  flinching  into  the  younger  man's 
face  as  she  spoke. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Philip  and  his  wife  were  walking  home  again  after  the 
wedding  of  Millicent  Mary  Twigg.  The  ceremony  and 
subsequent  feasting  was  marred  for  Ouldsbroom  by  the 
too  unctuous  propriety  of  the  company  and  the  Little 
Baptist  sentiments  of  the  toast-givers.  He  waited  only 
to  see  the  young  pair  drive  off,  then  left  the  inn  and 
played  with  Ethel  and  Alfred  Twigg,  Minnie  and  Jacky 
Crymes,  and  certain  other  children,  including  Martin, 
who  had  come  to  the  'Warren  House'  with  their  parents. 

Unity  joined  him  presently,  and  they  started  home- 
ward through  a  crystal-clear  gloaming,  with  frost  already 
at  work  on  the  heights. 

"Rabbit  that  man!"  said  Philip.  "Can't  even  be 
jolly  at  a  time  like  this.  And  that  fiddle-faced  fool  who 
proposed  the  health  of  the  bride.  Talk  about  turning 
water  into  wine,  like  the  Saviour  did!  'Twas  enough 
to  turn  wine  into  water  to  hear  him  drivelling  about  the 
solemn  duties  of  the  marriage  state.  Hadn't  they  heard 
enough  of  that  stuff  when  they  was  being  married  ? ' ' 

' '  Tom  Hurley  he 's  called — a  very  earnest  young  man, 
studying  for  the  ministry,  I  believe. ' ' 

"Is  he?  Well,  if  that's  his  idea  of  the  right  thing  at 
a  wedding,  I  should  very  much  like  to  hear  him  at  a 
funeral.  I  was  itching  to  take  him  by  the  collar  and 
ram  him  down  into  his  seat,  and  so  was  the  bridegroom. ' ' 

' '  A  pity  Henry  Birdwood  couldn  't  be  there. ' ' 

"So  'twas  then.  I  must  get  over  to  see  him  again 
at  the  end  of  the  week.  Doctor  stopped  five  minutes 
at  Hartland  on  the  way  back  yesterday,  and  said  he 
reckoned  he  was  a  thought  worse. ' ' 

184 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  185 

Unity  pursued  her  own  reflections.  Then  Philip  re- 
turned to  the  wedding  and  told  the  boy,  who  walked  be- 
side them,  to  run  on  ahead. 

*'Did  you  mark  how  Martin  listened  to  their  cater- 
wauling ? ' ' 

"He's  always  serious-minded." 

"Worse  luck.  But  what's  going  to  come  to  a  child 
that  can't  laugh  at  thirteen?  Was  there  ever  such  a 
good  boy  afore,  I  wonder?    Not  many,  I  hope." 

"He's  got  his  faults,"  said  Unity. 

"You  say  that!  I  haven't  seen  them.  But  I  should 
be  very  glad  to  hear  about  'em. ' ' 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  she  answered.  "Because  they 
ban't  your  own.  They're  mine.  I  see  into  him.  If 
he  was — well,  what  you  are  here  and  there — you'd  say 
they  weren't  faults  but  virtues.  But  my  faults  ban't 
virtues  in  your  eyes. ' ' 

He  whistled. 

"I'm  hearing  things!"  he  said.  "And  what  be  your 
faults,  Unity?  'Tis  because  the  boy's  your  boy  that 
I  've  taken  it  all  so  quiet,  I  assure  you.  When  I  've  wanted 
him  to  be  a  bit  more  open-hearted  and  like  t'other  child. 
Tiger — faulty  and  full  of  surprises,  so  that  you  love  the 
toad  while  you  cuff  his  li'l,  hard,  round  head — I've  said 
to  myself,  'Don't  forget  he's  the  son  of  his  mother. '  Your 
faults,  my  brave  dear;  and  what  be  they?  'Tis  strange 
as  I've  missed  'em." 

"I've  got  plenty,  Phil.  And  'tis  just  because  they 
look  so  small  in  your  eyes  that  I've  been  able  to  hide 
'em,  perhaps." 

"Get  along  with  you!"  he  said. 

"The  boy's  too  fond  of  money,  for  one  thing,"  she 
declared  suddenly.  "And  that's  me  in  him,  not  you 
anyway. ' ' 

Philip  was  much  intersted. 

"Now  I  wonder  if  that  be  true?  If  'tis,  I'm  sorry, 
for  I'd  sooner  he  was  fond  of  pretty  near  anything  else. 
Perhaps  time  will  cure  it  when  he  gets  old  enough  to 
be  fond  of  better  things — beer,  or  girls,  or  what  not." 

"Time  don't  cure  that  fondness." 


186  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

* '  I  doubt  you  'm  wrong. ' ' 

" I  'm  right,  but  I  don't  blame  him.  I 'm  fond  of  money 
too." 

"Who  isn't  in  reason?  So  be  I.  No  harm  in  the 
child  saving  if  the  man  spends." 

''That's  just  what  don't  happen.  If  the  child  saves, 
the  man  stints.    If  the  child 's  mean,  the  man 's  a  miser. ' ' 

' '  How  you  do  run  on !    Be  you  a  miser  ? ' ' 

She  laughed  at  that. 

''Small  chance  for  your  wife  to  be  one.  Maybe — if 
I'd  married  Birdwood " 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  interrupted  her.  "You'd  have 
had  to  save  for  him  and  been  a  poor  woman  all  your  life. 
But  with  me  'tis  different. ' ' 

"I've  had  to  save  for  you  harder  than  ever  I  should 
have  had  to  for  him,"  answered  Unity.  "I've  had  to 
stand  between  you  and  your  capital  like  a  wall  these 
years  and  years.  All  your  money  would  be  on  four  legs, 
scampering  away  to  other  people  long  ago,  but  for  me." 

He  was  thinking  about  Martin,  and  full  of  a  plot.  He 
told  Unity  nothing,  and  kept  his  own  counsel  until  the 
next  day. 

Then  Martin  rushed  to  his  mother,  white  and  fright- 
ened, with  tragic  news. 

' '  My  money-box  have  been  stolen ! "  he  cried.  ' '  Tiger 
have  just  given  me  a  penny  for  that  old  knife  I  found 
on  the  Moor,  and  I  went  to  put  it  in  my  box  and  it  ban 't 
there!" 

His  mother  helped  him  to  make  search,  but  she  could 
find  no  sign  of  the  money-box.  The  boy  had  a  little 
room  of  his  own  under  the  thatch  of  Hartland,  and  in  a 
corner,  at  the  bottom  of  a  larger  box  where  he  kept  his 
treasures,  the  money-box  was  wont  to  stand.  Martin 
carried  the  key  on  a  leather  watch-chain  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  He  was  positive  that  he  had  not  moved  the 
box  from  its  accustomed  place,  and  when  its  disappear- 
ance seemed  certain,  he  began  to  cry.  He  accused  the 
maiden  who  worked  at  Hartland ;  he  then  accused  Tiger. 

At  dinner  his  father  came  home  and  heard  the  black 
news. 


TPIE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  187 

*'How  much  was  in  it?"  he  asked. 

''One  pound,  eighteen  shillings  and  two  pence,"  sobbed 
Martin. 

''And — and "  burst  out  Tiger  from  his  place  at 

the  table  between  two  labourers,  ' '  I  give  warning,  master. 
I'll  go  at  the  end  of  my  month.  I  won't  stop  here  no 
more — God's  my  judge!  He  says  that  I've  took  his 
money,  and  I'll  beg  my  bread  on  the  high-road  rather 
than  suffer  it.  I've  never  touched  a  crumb,  nor  yet  a 
straw,  what  didn  't  belong  to  me  by  rights ;  and  after  all 
you've  done  for  me — to  hear  as  Martin  thinks  I  could 
do  such  a  thing  against  him !  And  I  catched  him  hunting 
in  the  little  cupboard  out  of  the  back  kitchen  where  I 
live — thinking  to  find  his  money  hid  there;  and  I  wish 
I  may  die  this  instant  moment  if " 

"Shut  your  mouth!"  said  Philip,  "and  get  on  with 
your  meat.  I'll  go  bail  for  you,  and  for  everybody  else. 
There's  none  under  this  roof  would  take  a  pin  as  didn't 
belong  to  them.  I  know  that,  and  Martin  knows  it — 
or  ought  to.  We  must  hunt  elsewhere.  'Tis  well  known 
folk  do  queer  things  in  their  sleep.  So  like  as  not  Martin 
have  hid  it  himself  somewhere." 

The  theory  brought  little  consolation,  however,  and  for 
twenty-four  hours  some  anxiety  and  tribulation  marked 
the  life  at  Hartland.  The  household  was  distracted  and 
suspicious.  Each  soul  thought  that  all  the  others  sus- 
pected him,  and  Ouldsbroom's  reiterated  assurances  by 
no  means  allayed  the  discomfiture. 

Martin,  unknown  to  himself,  was  watched  very  closely 
by  the  farmer,  and  for  once  his  fancied  father  saw  unjust 
suspicion,  unreasoning  passion,  as  well  as  natural  boyish 
bad  temper,  long  protracted.  That  Martin  should  have 
suspected  Tiger  was  a  grief  to  Ouldsbroom.  Martin's 
attitude  before  this  disaster  cast  him  down,  while  Tiger 's 
rage,  wild  oaths,  and  large  threats  of  terrific  retribution, 
cheered  him  up  again. 

When  night  came  the  boys  went  to  bed  enemies,  and 
Philip  crept  to  Martin's  door  to  watch  him,  if  possible, 
through  the  keyhole.  He  could  see  little,  but  he  heard 
a  prayer.    Martin  made  another  careful  examination  of 


188  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

every  corner  of  his  chamber;  he  then  sighed  deeply 
several  times.  Slowly  he  undressed,  and  then  knelt 
down  by  his  bed  and  prayed  out  loud.  His  mind  was 
now  at  peace,  and  no  evidence  of  his  past  temper  ap- 
peared in  a  mild  petition  to  Heaven.  He  begged  that 
God  would  touch  the  heart  of  the  robber  and  so  make 
him  return  Martin  his  savings.  He  added  a  faithful 
promise  that,  if  they  were  returned,  he  would  put  two 
shillings  into  the  church  plate  on  the  following  Sun- 
day. 

He  ended  up  with  the  words: 

"And  this  I  promise  for  Jesus  Christ's  sake,  Amen." 

Then  he  got  into  bed,  tossed  awhile,  and  sighed  him- 
self to  sleep. 

"You  was  right,"  said  the  farmer  to  Unity  soon  after- 
wards. "He's  fond  of  money.  I  took  it.  'Tis  locked 
up  in  my  desk.  You  ought  to  have  heard  him  praying, 
poor  chap.  He's  promised  the  Almighty  two  bob  if  his 
li  '1  box  turns  up ! " 

Next  day,  Philip,  having  slipped  another  shilling  into 
the  money-box,  returned  it  when  Martin  was  out  at 
school.  He  then  waited  with  eagerness  to  learn  the  boy's 
attitude  to  the  great  recovery. 

He  came  down  from  his  room  breathless,  flushed,  re- 
joicing. 

"It's  got  back!"  he  cried.  "And  there's  another 
shilling  in  it.  First  thing  I  done  was  to  iinlock  it  and 
count  over  my  money,  and  'tis  one  pound,  nineteen  and 
twopence  now!" 

Childlike,  he  puzzled  not  at  all  to  know  how  his  little 
fortune  went  and  came  again.  In  fact,  many  children 
would  have  been  more  interested  in  that  particular  than 
Martin.  Tiger,  for  one,  ceased  not  to  cudgel  his  brains 
as  to  what  craft  had  been  employed  and  why  the  robber 
had  added  to  the  hoard  rather  than  subtracted  from  it; 
but  upon  this  point  Martin  was  able  to  explain. 

"I  prayed  it  might  happen  so,"  he  said.  "I  asked 
for  the  money  back,  but,  of  course,  I  never  thought  to 
ask  for  a  bit  over.  That 's  the  Lord 's  idea,  and  now  I  '11 
only  lose  one  shilling  by  it  instead  of  the  two  I  should 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  180 

have.  I  promised  two  shillings,  and  if  I'd  promised  but 
one  shilling  I  should  have  lost  nought. ' ' 

He  asked  Tiger  to  forgive  him,  and,  indeed,  begged 
pardon  all  round  for  his  ill-temper  and  suspicions.  The 
actual  mystery  did  not  trouble  him;  and  he  was  only 
concerned  to  have  his  money  back.  Indeed,  that  night 
he  prayed  his  God  to  pardon  the  sinner  who  had  done 
this  thing;  and  on  the  following  Sunday,  without  being 
reminded,  he  put  a  florin  into  the  offertory  plate.  He 
did  it  rather  reluctantly,  and  was  very  silent  for  a  long 
time  afterwards. 

Henceforth  Philip  sought  to  enlarge  the  boy's  mind 
and  increase  his  instincts  towards  generosity.  Perhaps 
the  only  result  of  this  practical  joke  was  a  shadow  of 
cooling  regard  between  the  boys.  That,  however,  even 
Ouldsbroom  perceived  was  inevitable.  Their  differences 
of  outlook  and  intellect  were  not  such  as  promised  to 
strike  a  lasting  spark  of  friendship  from  the  contact. 
Yet  the  farmer  felt  angry  with  Tiger  for  liking  Martin 
less.  To  his  wife  sometimes  he  uttered  the  familiar, 
futile  wish  that  the  children  could  be  melted  together 
and  cast  anew  with  a  different  proportion  of  character- 
istics. 


CHAPTER  X 

On  a  day  in  December  Unity  heard  the  rattle  of  hoofs 
upon  the  stones  of  the  farmyard  and  saw  young  Jona- 
than French,  Birdwood's  new  assistant  at  Teign  Head, 
gallop  off  at  a  great  pace  to  Postbridge.  She  was  up- 
stairs, and  witnessed  his  departure  from  her  bedroom 
window.  A  moment  later  her  maid  hastened  to  her  with 
the  man's  news. 

Henry  Birdwood,  who  had  been  ill  for  some  weeks, 
supposed  himself  better,  disobeyed  orders,  and  went 
about  his  business  in  bad  weather.  He  was  now  stricken 
down  and  at  the  point  of  death.  The  doctor  had  stopped 
with  him  and  sent  French  with  messages  to  Postbridge. 
Birdwood  desired,  before  all  else,  to  see  Philip  Oulds- 
broom,  and  French  brought  that  message.  The  girl  had 
directed  him  to  Postbridge,  whither  Philip  was  gone. 
The  messenger  from  Teign  Head  then  purposed  fetching 
Mrs.  Dury,  the  sick  luirse.  He  would  carry  her  luggage 
on  his  horse,  and  she  might  walk  or  ride  a  pony.  The  in- 
accessible position  of  Teign  Head  increased  the  difficul- 
ties, but  the  gravity  of  Birdwood's  case  was  doubly  his 
own  fault,  for  Dr.  Dickinson  had  advised  him,  some 
weeks  earlier,  to  leave  his  home  and  go  into  hospital. 
That  he  had  refused  to  do;  and  then,  when  making  a 
good  recovery,  he  went  afield  too  soon,  and  now  seemed 
destined  to  pay  for  his  folly  with  his  life. 

Unity  Ouldsbroom  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
danger,  and  devoted  her  whole  gift  of  energy  to  the  task 
of  conquering  it.  Why  Birdwood  w^anted  her  husband, 
she  guessed.  The  shepherd's  troubled  spirit  thrust  him 
this  way  and  that,  and  at  last,  in  fear  of  his  end,  he  de- 

190 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  191 

sired  to  tell  the  truth  to  Philip  before  he  should  depart. 
Her  mind  delayed  not  a  moment.  Indeed,  there  was  no 
time  for  delay.  Had  she  seen  the  messenger,  she  might 
have  deflected  his  course  and  kept  him  away  from  Philip ; 
but  now  her  husband  would  know  what  had  happened 
and  set  out  for  Teign  Head.  She  must  get  there  first, 
and  instantly  she  started.  Her  impulse  was  to  go  oft' 
on  foot;  her  reason  delayed  her  at  the  beginning,  to 
make  swifter  speed  in  the  long  run.  She  was  stout  now, 
and  not  a  speedy  walker.  Therefore  she  went  to  the 
stable,  saddled  Ouldsbroom's  riding-horse,  and,  as  soon 
as  she  was  a  hundred  yards  from  the  farm,  she  mounted 
and  rode  like  a  man.  Two  points  were  thus  gained :  she 
would  get  to  Teign  Head  quicker,  and  Philip  would  come 
slower;  because  there  was  nothing  left  at  Hartland  for 
him  to  ride  but  a  cart-horse. 

Much  depended  on  the  doctor,  and  Unity  guessed  that 
he  would  be  glad  to  hand  the  patient  over  to  friends. 

The  horse  trotted  over  the  coarse  integument  of  the 
faded  heath,  all  grazed  close,  all  grey  and  harsh  and  sod- 
den on  the  edge  of  winter.  Only  the  asphodel's  russet 
death  and  blue  rosettes  of  the  moor  grass,  that  had  es- 
caped the  teeth  of  sheep  and  kine,  still  lingered,  and 
wove  fading  patterns  upon  the  patchwork  of  the  wilder- 
ness. Sere  was  the  way  and  silent,  save  for  a  sourly 
whimpering  wind  that  roamed  the  wet  miles  of  the  Moor, 
shook  the  woman's  hair  about  her  ears,  and  seemed  to 
wail  fitfully,  like  a  sick  child. 

From  the  soaking  heights  of  Siddaford,  above  the  Grey 
Wethers,  there  spread  northerly  a  mottled  desert  patched 
with  darkness  of  heather  on  a  ground  of  livid  and  dead 
grass.  This  wan  covering  brightened  in  the  bogs,  where 
sedges  perished  in  red  death  and  spread  dark,  ruddy 
stains,  as  though  blood  had  flowed  out  there.  The  land 
rolled  desolate,  water-logged,  spiritless  even  to  Cosdon's 
rounded  shoulders  heaving  to  the  north.  Under  Unity's 
eyes  in  the  cradle  of  Teign,  where  it  now  extended  be- 
neath her,  stood  the  home  of  Birdwood— the  loneliest  in- 
habited dwelling  upon  Dartmoor,  but  not  beyond  the 
beat  of  death.    A  little  reclaimed  land  stretched  round 


192  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

about,  and  the  house  showed  no  larger  than  a  great,  moss- 
grown  stone  flung  here  long  since  and  now  welded  into 
the  hillside.  The  lintels  of  the  doorway  were  washed 
with  white  and  flashed  far  off  under  a  rusty  red  roof. 

Overhead  arched  the  cold,  grey  sky,  fretted  aloft  with 
horizontal  bars  of  dark  vapour;  while  beneath  them 
round  wool-pack  clouds  lumbered  up  from  the  south- 
west, laden  and  leaking  with  the  next  downpour.  The 
place  of  the  sun  was  hidden,  and  the  day  was  dark 
though  noon  had  not  yet  come. 

Unity  now  dismounted,  and  walked  her  horse  down 
to  the  valley.  She  was  soon  at  Teign  Head  cot,  and  the 
old  doctor  hastened  out  to  meet  her. 

"Where's  your  husband?"  he  asked-  "The  man's 
crying  out  for  him." 

"He'll  be  here  presently.  He  was  away  when  the 
news  came,  and  they've  sent  to  fetch  him.  I  came  so 
quick  as  I  could.    How  is  the  poor  chap  ? ' ' 

"He's  dying.  I  think  he's  conscious,  but  that's  all. 
Nothing  can  save  him.  In  fact,  it  was  all  over  before  I 
got  here  to-da3^  He's  killed  himself,  as  I  told  him  he 
would  long  ago.  I  must  get  to  Chagford  now,  and  I'll 
come  back  this  way,  if  I  can,  to-night;  but  none  can 
help  him." 

"I'll  stop  till  the  nurse  comes.  Maybe  he'll  tell  me 
what  he  wanted  to  tell  my  man. ' ' 

"How  he's  existed  so  long  in  this  den  I  hardly  know. 
For  years  he  has  been  weak  and  ailing. ' ' 

Dr.  Dickinson  went  in  and  cast  a  look  at  his  patient ; 
he  directed  Unity  how  to  relieve  him,  and  then  got  on 
his  horse  and  rode  away  down  the  valley.  It  began  to 
rain  again. 

Birdwood  's  bed  had  been  brought  into  the  kitchen  and 
stood  near  the  fire.  The  room  was  smoky  and  very  hot. 
He  sat  propped  up,  with  his  shoulders  lifted,  struggling 
for  air. 

"Ope  the  window,  for  God's  sake,"  he  said  when  they 
were  alone. 

"Mustn't  do  that,"  she  answered.  "Lie  so  still  as 
you  know  how." 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  193 

He  implored  for  the  window,  and  she  opened  it. 

"Where's  Philip?"  he  asked. 

"Coming.    He'll  be  here  soon." 

Her  eyes  were  on  the  distant  hillside. 

Birdwood  was  comatose,  but  conscious. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  him,"  he  whispered.  "It's  got  to 
be.  I  wanted  to  tell  him  once — for  hate;  to  show  him 
I  was  the  strong  one — not  him.  Now — now  'tis  only 
for  justice — I  won't  go  on  stinging  the  man  from  the 
grave.    I " 

"Can't  you  think  for  the  child?" 

"Don't  I?  He'll  be  a  shining  light  some  day.  Born 
good,  he  was.  Born  good  out  of  our  wickedness.  That's 
how  things  happen.    Philip " 

He  fell  over  on  one  side  and  she  helped  him  and  put 
her  arm  round  him. 

"You — you  don't  count,"  he  continued.  "You've 
hated  me  for  years.  You'd  like  to  smother  me  now  with 
my  pillow — wouldn't  you?  Why  don't  you  do  it?  I'd 
thank  you,  for  that  matter — dying  by  inches  like  this  is 
hell." 

"Don't  talk." 

"I'll  wait  for  Philip.  As  for  you— let  your  God  get 
you  out  of  this  mess." 

He  grinned  into  her  hard  face.  She  itched  to  silence 
him,  and  he  knew  what  was  in  her  mind. 

"Do  it!"  he  said. 

He  became  unconscious  a  moment  later,  and  she 
thought  that  he  was  dying.  She  looked  at  the  brandy, 
but  put  none  to  his  mouth.  He  appeared  to  recognise 
her  again  presently.    But  he  began  to  sink. 

On  the  hill  Unity  saw  a  man.  She  propped  Birdwood 
up  and  went  out.  She  ran  to  reach  Philip  as  quickly  as 
possible,  and  when  she  did  so,  they  stood  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  Teign  Head. 

For  a  moment  she  gasped  with  her  hand  to  her  heart. 
Then  she  spoke. 

"I've  got  a  message.  He's  thirsty  and  implores  for  a 
drink  of  champagne.  'Twill  be  his  last  drink  on  earth, 
if  there's  time.    I  told  him  that  I'd  sighted  you. on  the 

13 


194  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

hill  and  he  said  'Ax  him  for  God's  sake  to  run  over  to 
"Warren  House"  and  get  me  a  bottle  of  champagne. 
'Twill  help  me  to  die  easier.'  " 

"Is  he  dying?" 

"So  doctor  says.  He'll  go  to-night,  or  maybe  last 
till  to-morrow." 

"What  did  he  want  me  for?" 

"Only  to  say  'good-bye.'  You  be  more  to  him  than 
any  living  man.  He  thinks  the  world  of  you.  But  now 
he's  cruel  set  on  the  wine.  Will  you  get  it?  I'm  doing 
everything  the  doctor  directed  till  Mrs.  Dury  comes. ' ' 

Philip  hesitated. 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  poor  chap  again  first." 

"As  you  please,  but  he's  terrible  impatient  for  it. 
You'll  be  doing  him  a  better  service  by  getting  the  drink. 
His  whole  thought  and  longing  be  on  it.  'Tis  the  last 
thing  you'll  ever  be  able  to  do  for  him.  When  I  said  I 
saw  you  on  the  hill,  he  prayed  as  I'd  run  out  swift  and 
ax  you.  He  thinks  'twill  help  him  to  go  easier;  and 
dying  men  be  always  right." 

Philip  looked  roimd  about  him. 

"Let  me  see  how  the  land  lies.  Yes — if  I  keep  right 
over  White  Ridge  and  Assy  combe.  Tell  him  I've  gone 
for  it  then,  and  will  make  the  very  best  pace  I  can. ' ' 

She  feared  that  her  husband  would  mention  the  horse ; 
but  he  did  not.  He  had  not  been  home,  and  was  unaware 
that  she  had  ridden. 

Ouldsbroom  set  off  and  she  walked  a  little  way  beside 
him.  Rain  swept  them  heavily.  He  urged  her  to  return, 
and  presently  she  left  him  and  did  so. 

Her  mind  was  full  of  uncertainty,  and  her  hope  cen- 
tred in  the  belief  that  by  the  time  Philip  came  back  Bird- 
wood  must  have  passed  out  of  sense,  if  not  life.  She 
w^ondered  whether  it  might  be  possible  to  advance  that 
end.  She  told  herself  the  man  was  as  good  as  dead,  and 
that  the  welfare  of  the  living  must  not  be  endangered  by 
a  moribund  creature. 

The  patient  had  fallen  forward  when  she  returned  to 
him  and  appeared  to  be  quite  unconscious.  Then  a  fear 
struck  her  mind  that  he  might  be  simulating  this  state, 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  195 

and  would  wake  into  life  again  when  her  husband  re- 
turned. He  must  be  away  for  the  better  part  of  two 
hours ;  the  nurse  would  doubtless  arrive  sooner. 

She  did  not  lift  or  touch  Birdwood,  but  went  out  into 
the  passage  to  reflect.  She  argued  with  herself  that  he 
was  virtually  dead ;  she  tried  to  make  herself  believe  that 
he  was  actually  so. 

She  returned  to  him  presently,  and  put  her  hand  to  his 
heart.  Poultices  had  slipped  down  off  his  back  and  chest. 
His  eyes  were  open  but  unseeing.  She  could  not  feel  a 
pulse,  and  went  out  and  left  him  in  the  same  position. 
Then  she  suddenly  remembered  that  if  young  French  or 
Mrs.  Dury  came  over  the  hill  they  would  see  her  in  the 
yard ;  therefore  she  retreated  and  went  into  the  parlour. 
Mist  was  driving  down  upon  the  Moor,  and  herein  ap- 
peared another  cause  for  hope.  Her  husband  might  lose 
his  way  back.  Time,  that  she  desired  to  crawl,  raced 
with  her.  An  hour  passed  and  she  returned  to  Birdwood. 
He  was  still  humped  up  with  his  head  on  his  knees. 
Again  she  felt  him  and  found  his  hands  and  feet  were 
cold.  She  laid  him  back,  laielt  beside  him,  and  thanked 
God  from  her  heart  that  he  was  dead. 

No  doubt  remained  longer,  and  her  attitude  changed. 
An  immense  load  rolled  from  off  her  mind.  She  shut  the 
window  and  set  about  making  some  fresh  poultices. 
These  she  applied  to  the  corpse.  She  could  have  sung. 
Death  never  faced  a  more  light-hearted  woman.  She 
forgave  Birdwood  all  that  he  had  cost  her  of  late.  She 
regarded  him  now  with  a  stern  complacency  and  traced 
the  lineaments  of  her  own  child  in  his.  He  was  begin- 
ning each  moment  to  look  younger ;  and  she  believed  that 
presently,  if  his  face  was  shorn,  death  would  be  found  to 
have  taken  ten  years  from  it  and  ruled  out  many  of  the 
deep  lines  and  crosslines  scored  upon  his  forehead  and 
cheeks  during  that  period.  Henry  Birdwood  had 
stamped  his  image  on  their  child's  body.  He  had  often 
said  so,  and  she  knew  it  very  well.  She  had  watched 
Martin  growing  more  like  his  father,  had  marked  the 
thin,  long  limbs,  colour  of  skin,  and  poise  of  head  on 
neck.     She  had  speculated  drearily  on  the  future,  and 


196  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

marvelled  at  the  blindness  of  the  people  who  could  not 
note  a  thing  so  apparent  to  the  eyes  in  her  head  and  the 
eyes  in  her  soul.  Only  the  greater  gravity  of  the  dead 
man's  personal  threats  had  made  this  impersonal  dread 
less  paramount.  And  now  all  fear  departed  from  her, 
and  took  years  with  it,  even  as  death  was  taking  years 
from  the  dead.  She  reflected  on  the  slender  accident 
that  might  have  turned  that  day  from  the  best  in  her 
life  to  the  worst.  Had  Philip  been  at  home;  had  the 
messenger  delivered  Birdwood's  cry  to  him,  he,  and  not 
she,  must  first  have  arrived  at  Teign  Head.  Her  hus- 
band, in  that  case  would  have  been  in  time  to  hear  the 
confession. 

' '  My  sin  is  forgiven, ' '  she  said  to  herself,  and  believed 
an  interposition  of  Providence. 

She  prayed  that  Birdwood's  image  might  vanish  from 
people's  minds  as  quickly  as  his  body  from  their  sight. 
There  was  a  photograph  of  him  extant.  Her  husband 
had  a  copy  and  one  or  two  others  possibly  existed.  One 
hung  close  by  in  the  parlour.  This  she  now  secured  and 
flung  into  the  fire. 

Another  hour  passed,  and  then  from  the  outer  gloom 
came  shouts.  She  ran  to  the  door,  made  answer,  and 
directed  the  fog-foundered  Jonathan  French  and  Mrs. 
Dury  to  Teign  Head.  They  had  missed  the  way  beyond 
Siddaford  and  were  wandering  half  a  mile  above  the 
cottage. 

The  man  rode  and  carried  Mrs.  Dury's  bundle;  she 
tramped  beside  him,  wet  to  the  skin  and  much  ex- 
hausted. 

"Look  to  yourself,  Betty,"  said  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom,  as 
she  received  them,  and  settled  her  face  into  solemnity, 
"It's  all  over,  poor  fellow.  I  got  here  hours  agone,  but 
he  was  just  flickering  out  then.  The  doctor  said  he  was 
so  good  as  dead  before  he  left.  I've  kept  poultices  to 
him,  but  he 's  gone  this  longf ul  time. ' ' 

The  nurse  regarded  Birdwood  closely  and  satisfied 
herself  that  he  was  dead. 

' '  Take  all  they  things  away  and  ope  the  window, ' '  she 
said.    "  I  '11  change  my  clothes  and  then  I  '11  lay  him  out, 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  197 

poor  blid.  Where's  the  brandy?  French  and  me  had 
better  have  a  drop  hot.    We  're  finger-cold. ' ' 

Within  another  half-hour  Philip  Ouldsbroom  arrived 
breathless  and  soaking.  His  clothes  steamed  upon  him 
with  the  haste  that  he  had  made.  Unity  met  him  at  the 
porch. 

"Thank  God  you'm  come.  I  thought  you  was  lost!" 
she  cried. 

"The  biggest  bottle  in  the  pub,"  he  said:  "and 
Gregory's  going  to  get  over  to  have  a  tell,  if  the  fog 
lifts.    He  didn't  know  things  was  so  bad." 

' '  Hush — he 's  gone,  my  dear.  His  last  thought  was  for 
you.  'Eemember  me  kindly — remember  me  kindly  to 
Phil, '  was  the  very  last  word  I  could  catch.  Then  he  got 
dwaling  and  rambling.    And  then  he  died  in  my  arms. ' ' 

"Dead— dead!" 

"An  hour  and  more." 

The  man  relaxed  all  over  and  exhibited  grief.  The 
great  bottle  he  had  dragged  across  the  Moor  fell  out  of 
his  hand  and  broke.    Its  contents  hissed  into  the  mire. 

"He  knowed  what  you'd  gone  for.  He  said  'twas  like 
you  to  go.  You  'd  best  come  in  quick  and  get — or  better 
still,  take  the  hoss  and  ride  home  so  hard  as  you  can  and 
change  your  clothes." 

"I  must  see  him,"  he  said,  and  pushed  past  her  to 
look  at  Birdwood. 

Betty  Dury  was  washing  the  body,  but  threw  a  sheet 
over  it  at  his  approach. 

"Do  'e  think  you  could  shave  his  poor  cheeks,  Mr. 
Ouldsbroom?"  she  asked.  "  'Twould  make  him  look 
more  vitty  and  like  himself." 

Philip  took  Birdwood 's  hand  and  squeezed  it, 

"Good-bye,  old  chap;  good-bye!"  he  said. 


BOOK  III 

CHAPTER  I 

Henry  Birdwood  was  buried  at  Widecombe  with  his 
mother,  and  certain  friends  attended  the  funeral.  Some 
walked  with  the  dead  and  some  rode  on  horseback. 
Gregory  Twigg  and  Philip  Ouldsbroom  returned  together 
with  young  French.  They  asked  the  latter  whether  he 
objected  to  stop  at  Teign  Head  alone,  and  he  told  them 
that  he  did. 

The  question  of  a  new  Moor-man  for  the  East  Quarter 
of  the  Forest  was  not  yet  determined. 

At  the  'Warren  House'  Philip  alighted  to  drink,  but 
Unity,  who  was  in  the  market  cart  and  had  driven  with 
Martin  to  the  funeral,  did  not  stay. 

Gregory  uttered  some  reflections  upon  the  event  of  the 
morning  for  the  benefit  of  Peter  Culme  and  others  who 
were  in  the  bar.  Then  arose  argument  between  Peter 
and  the  innkeeper,  on  one  side,  and  Ouldsbroom  and 
the  ancient  man,  Nat  Woodley,  upon  the  other. 

*'He  was  back  in  the  fold  afore  the  end,  and  that's  a 
tower  of  strength,"  said  Gregory.  "It  was  my  work — of 
course  the  Lord  aiding.  I  can  see  poor  Henry  coming 
up  to  me  when  I  go  over — I  can  see  his  hand  stretched 
out  and  feel  his  angel  hand-shake  and  hear  him  say, '  'Tis 
all  thanks  to  you,  Twigg — all  thanks  to  you. '  ' ' 

"There'll  be  bands  playing  and  banners  flying  when 
you  go  aloft,  Greg,"  said  Philip.  "A  regular  revel,  I 
reckon,  and  everybody  given  a  whole  holiday.  How  the 
mischief  they  can  rub  along  without  you  up  there  be  the 
puzzle  to  me," 

198 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  199 

Mr.  Twigg  reproved  the  farmer  and  turned  to  Woodley. 

' '  I  never  heard  tell  the  man  was  dead  till  an  hour  ago, ' ' 
said  Nat.  "I  comed  in  this  here  bar  for  my  afternoon 
drop  and  your  missis  told  me.    What  took  him?" 

"What '11  take  us  all,  neighbour,"  answered  Gregory. 
"I  saw  him  the  next  day,  for  'tis  among  my  chastening 
rules  of  life  never  to  miss  the  sight  of  a  corpse.  If  us 
living  creatures  saw  more  dead  people  'twould  be  very 
good  for  us.  I  think  there  was  victory  on  Henry's  face. 
I  hope  so.  If  anybody  hadn't  learnt  to  read  the  little 
touches  that  mean  death,  they  might  have  said  'twas 
sleep." 

"Death  and  sleep  be  cousins,"  said  Peter;  "at  least 
that  was  the  f ansical  way  pastor  put  it  in  his  sermon. ' ' 

"Trash!"  answered  Ouldsbroom.  "Don't  you  believe 
that,  Culme." 

"  'Tis  true,"  declared  Gregory.  "  'Tis  true  beyond 
question.  Sleep  restores  our  natural  powers  of  mind  and 
body — don't  it?  It  gives  us  a  new  life  every  morning; 
then  why  shouldn't  death  do  the  same  and  give  us  a 
new  life  altogether?" 

' '  Doan  't  knaw  why  it  shouldn  't, ' '  said  the  aged  Wood- 
ley.  "But  I'm  damned  certain  it  won't.  Sleep  be  rest, 
and  there's  nought  in  common  betwixt  that  and  death — 
pretend  as  you  may.  Who  should  know  if  I  doan't? 
Why,  death,  as  it  gets  nearer  to  us,  kills  sleep.  What's 
my  sleep  now  but  a  sort  of  dog 's  sleep,  broken  every  time 
I  turn  my  neck  by  a  pang  where  death  be  hammering 
home  his  wedges?  Death  be  death,  and  all  the  talk  in 
all  the  Bibles  won't  get  you  out  of  his  net  when  your 
turn  comes." 

"True  for  you,  Nat,"  declared  Ouldsbroom;  "and  'tis 
a  very  manly  thing  in  you  at  your  age  to  face  it  so 
fearless. ' ' 

"Death's  no  hardship  to  the  dead — that's  why  I  face 
it,"  replied  the  ancient.  "We've  got  to  go,  and,  if  you 
live  long  enough,  you're  glad  to  go.  And  w^e,  who  know 
the  meaning  of  life,  would  never  call  back  any  we  cared 
about.  'Twould  be  cruelty  to  do  it,  and  they  wouldn't 
come  for  certain — even  if  they  could."  


200  THE    THIEF   OF    VIRTUE 

But  Philip  denied  this. 

"You're  out  there,"  he  answered.  "I'd  come  for  one 
— gladly  and  thankfully  come.  If  I  didn't  drop  till  I 
was  a  hundred,  still  I'd  crawl  rejoicing  back,  if  'twas 
only  to  shake  a  man 's  hand,  or  hear  a  woman 's  voice,  or 
list  to  a  bird  singing.  I'd  come  just  to  look  at  the  sky 
and  the  clouds  travelling  on  it.  I'd  come  to  have  one 
drink  along  with  an  old  pal.  If  'twas  only  for  five  min- 
utes I'd  throw  off  death  and  come." 

"You  entirely  forget  what  I  hope  you'd  be  leaving, 
Ouldsbroom,"  said  Mr.  Twigg. 

"  'Leaving'!  Leaving  a  cheerful  family  of  worms — 
poor  company,  Greg — you  may  take  your  oath  of  that. 
Bah !  Give  me  another  drop  of  beer  to  drown  the  thought 
of  it." 

"  'Tis  your  narrow  way  not  to  look  beyond  the  pit," 
said  Mr.  Twigg,  ' '  and  Barbara  Hext  be  largely  to  blame. 
We,  who  have  understanding,  can  only  pin  our  doubtful 
hope  for  you  on  the  mercy  of  the  Lord.  We  don't  deny 
your  M'orks;  but  works  without  faith  be  as  much  use  to 
mankind  as  a  bladder  without  wind  in  it  to  the  drown^ 
ing.  The  bladder  must  be  blowed  out  with  air,  Philip, 
if  'tis  to  be  of  any  consequence ;  and  the  human  creature 
must  be  blowed  out  with  faith,  or  else  he'll  sink  to  the 
worm  which  dieth  not;  and  that's  a  very  different 
creature  from  the  poor  churchyard  sort." 

"First  time  as  ever  I  knowed  'twas  faith  as  had  made 
your  barrel  so  rovind,  Greg,"  answered  Philip.  "If 
'twasn't  for  what  we've  just  done,  I  could  burst  my  sides 
laughing  at  that;  for  look  at  Medlicott,  your  minister. 
Faith  haven't  fattened  him  over  much.  You  can  see 
through  the  man.  He'm  little  better  than  a  dry  built 
wall,  that  the  wind  and  rain  play  hide-and-seek  in." 

"His  work's  over,"  answered  Peter  Culme.  "He's 
going  away  to  live  the  fag  end  of  life  in  a  lew  corner. 
And  there 's  another  who  be  failing  fast,  and  that 's  Miss 
Hext  herself.  A  landmark  gone  she'll  be — a  very  wise, 
kind  woman — whatever  she  believes  or  don't.  She 
judges  none,  and  few  can  say  as  much." 

' '  None  but  the  Dissenters, ' '  declared  Gregory.  ' '  We  've 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  201 

all  our  weakness,  and  that's  hers.  'Tis  a  very  sad  and 
startling  thing  in  her,  and  I  can't  understand  it.  To 
think  she  has  lived  all  these  years  in  the  very  shadow  of 
us  Little  Baptists,  you  might  say,  and  yet  can't  see  the 
light.     However " 

''Damn  Time!"  burst  out  Philip.  "The  cruel  wretch 
won't  let  nothing  and  nobody  alone.  Time's  the  only 
devil,  say  what  you  will,  Greg." 

"You've  little  to  grumble  at,"  declared  Culme. 
"He'm  gentle  enough  with  you,  whoever  else  he  may  be 
busy  with.  He's  taking  your  hair  a  bit;  but  that's 
nought. ' ' 

"We  ought  to  get  old,  and  'tis  very  indecent  in  you 
not  to  do  it,  Ouldsbroom,"  declared  the  innkeeper. 
"Why  for  you  bide  so  young,  and  so  foolish  here  and 
there,  I  never  can  understand  or  forgive  in  you.  There  '11 
come  a  day  of  reckoning.  You  may  feel  certain-sure  of 
that.  'Tis  better  far  for  time  to  jog  steadily  and  bring 
its  weight  of  years  and  weight  of  knowledge  with  'em, 
than  hang  fire  like  it  do  with  you;  for,  mark  me,  'twill 
come  with  a  rush  when  it  do  come,  and  you'll  go  down 
afore  it,  like  a  green  tree  afore  an  autumn  gale.  And 
what  is  there  to  stay  you  up  when  the  storm  falls  ?  Now, 
I  have  always,  as  it  were,  spoken  face  to  face  with  the 
Lord,  like  Moses  on  the  Mount,  and  come  away  shining; 
and  I  can  tell  you " 

But  Ouldsbroom  felt  no  desire  to  listen  further. 

"Shine  on,"  he  said;  "but  you've  shined  enough  for 
one  day,  in  my  opinion.  I  be  going  down  the  hill  to  Post- 
bridge  to  tell  a  neighbour  or  two  about  the  funeral  now. ' ' 

He  went  to  see  Barbara  presently  and,  moved  by  the 
things  that  Culme  had  said,  scrutinised  her  face  narrowly. 

"Left  that  fool  Twigg  chin-deep  in  drivel.  Couldn't 
stand  no  more  of  it.  A  funeral  brings  out  the  very  mar- 
row of  the  man.  I  long  to  lift  my  fist  and  beat  him 
down  at  such  times." 

"We're  all  humbugs,  Phil,  and  other  people's  humbug 
always  looks  nasty  to  us.  But  none  are  free  of  it.  'Tis 
certain  in  us,  as  that  we  've  all  got  ten  toes.  Every  living 
creature  has  some  dirtj^  little  holes  sealed  up  and  white- 


202  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

washed  over  in  their  cellars.  We  pretend  we  have  not; 
but  we  know  we  have." 

"Don't  you  begin  to  preach  too.  Remember  as  I. 
have  had  Twigg  on  my  hands  ever  since  we  left  Henry's 
grave.*  'Tis  a  very  nice  spot  they've  chose,  and  I  be 
going  to  put  up  a  stone  to  the  man  presently.  I  knowed 
more  about  him  than  anybody,  and  understood  him  bet- 
ter. His  last  word  was  'good-bye'  to  me,  and  I  shall 
miss  him  a  lot." 

"Did  the  missis  go  to  the  funeral?" 

"She  did,  and  so  did  Martin.  I'll  swear  he  got  a  spark 
of  pleasure  out  of  it.  But  you  know  him.  He'd  be  a 
parson  himself,  I  believe,  if  he  could.  But  I  told  him  a 
bit  ago  that  I'd  sooner  see  him  in  his  coffin  than  in  a 
white  choker,  and  he  looked  at  me — in  that  measuring, 
doubtful  way  of  his ;  but  he  said  nought. ' ' 

' '  He 's  growing  a  fine  fellow. ' ' 

"So  he  is,  and  getting  clever  at  the  farm  too.  I  shall 
have  to  talk  presently,  but  I'm  putting  it  off,  for  he'll 
be  away  to  school  after  Christmas,  and  that  will  enlarge 
his  mind  a  bit." 

' '  Certainly  it  will  do  so. "  • 

"  'Tis  that  he  wants.  He's  just,  but  awful  narrow. 
He  judges  right;  but  why  the  hell  judge  at  all?  that's 
what  I'm  always  axing  him.  'Judge  not  at  all,'  says 
Christ,  doan't  He?  Then  why  do  these  prize  Christians 
want  for  to  be  always  doing  it,  and  casting  a  stone  at 
tramps  and  freethinkers  and  socialists  and  everybody 
else,  as  don't  walk  head  to  head  with  'em?  I  want  my 
son  to  be  large-minded.  Justice  is  a  good  boss,  but 
Mercy's  a  better  one,  Barbara;  and  the  older  I  get,  I 
find  myself  that  terrible  merciful  that  I'll  forgive  any- 
body anything — if  they'll  only  let  me  alone  and  mind 
their  own  business." 

She  laughed. 

"  'Twill  be  a  great  strain  for  Unity  parting  with  the 
boy." 

"And  for  me.    I  shall  miss  him  cruel,  for  all  he 

You  see,  Barbara,  somehow — what's  the  word?  Well, 
they  do  take  sides  against  me.    Yes,  they  do.     I'm  not 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  203 

angry — I  'm  calm  as  a  frog.  Haven 't  I  just  come  from  a 
funeral,  and  have  I  got  more  than  two  half  pints  inside 
of  me?  No,  I  haven't.  But,  in  a  way,  they  take  sides. 
Not  meaning  to  hurt;  yet  'tis  two  for  one  and — and " 

He  grew  red — at  pictures  cast  upon  his  mind  by 
memory. 

' '  Think  nothing  of  it.  'Tis  the  strength  of  your  wife. 
But  you  '11  ever  find  her  safe  on  the  side  of  wisdom. ' ' 

"That's  as  may  be.  A  man  must  be  master  in  his 
own  house,  Barbara.  There'll  be  Cain  let  loose  at  Hart- 
land  if  any  creature  thinks  to  come  between  me  and  the 
master's  place.  What  right — what  right,  I  say,  has  the 
woman ? ' ' 

He  broke  off,  conscious  that  he  was  about  to  utter  an 
unbecoming  thing.     He  laughed. 

"There — there!  We'm  such  old  friends  that  I  seem. 
like  to  trade  on  it  and  wash  dirty  linen  afore  you.  God 
forgive  me  for  thinking  to  do  such  a  thing.  'Tis  only 
my  stupid  pride.  They  meant  nought.  Ban't  I  the  life 
and  soul  of  'em  both  ?  What  would  they  be  without  me, 
or  me  without  them?" 

"That's  right,  Phil.    Now  'tis  you  talking." 

But  when  Ouldsbroom  went  home  he  left  Barbara  with 
some  fertile  food  for  thought.  She  was  not  an  inquisi- 
tive woman ;  yet  she  knew  the  character  of  Unity  Oulds- 
broom exceedingly  well,  and  now  she  asked  herself  with 
interest  what  had  happened.  That  Philip's  wife  had 
somewhere  failed  of  her  usual  perfect  tact  and  skill  ap- 
peared. That  she  had  hurt  and  even  angered  Oulds- 
broom was  clear.  He  revealed  the  fact  less  in  words  than 
by  the  lifted  voice  and  angry  flush  that  accompanied 
them.  Miss  Hext  was  concerned  for  him,  and  trusted 
that  the  incident  had  been  isolated  and  provoked  by  some 
untoward  chance  not  likely  to  recur. 

She  guessed  that  Martin's  forthcoming  departure  to 
a  boarding-school  might  diminish  further  opportunities 
for  friction. 


CHAPTER  II 

Martin's  departure  was  delayed  until  the  spring.  Then 
came  the  great  event.  His  box  was  packed,  his  farewells 
were  made,  and  he  drove  off  with  Philip  to  a  school  at 
Bovey  Tracey. 

It  was  typical  of  the  boy  and  man  that  Martin  re- 
mained collected  and  calm,  while  Ouldsbroom  became 
more  agitated  as  the  goal  of  the  journey  approached 
them.  Only  when  he  left  his  mother  did  the  lad's  lip 
falter.  He  would  not  show  Tiger  his  face  when  his  play- 
fellow, having  carried  the  box  to  the  trap,  stood  at  hand 
to  say  'good-bye.'  Then  Philip,  marking  the  tears,  sig- 
nalled Tiger  away.  Unity  stood  at  Hartland  door  as 
long  as  the  vehicle  was  visible.  When  she  saw  that  it 
was  about  to  disappear,  she  waved  her  apron,  noted  the 
answering  flutter  of  her  son's  handkerchief,  and  went  to 
her  work. 

She  hoped  great  things  of  this  change,  and  had  stinted 
for  it  through  the  past  ten  years.  Her  ambitions  for  the 
boy  were  high,  but  as  yet  he  had  manifested  no  special 
taste.  Secretly  she  pictured  him  a  clergyman,  since  by 
that  door  his  social  position  might  most  easily  be  lifted; 
but  Philip  raged  so  violently  against  the  thought,  that 
it  never  escaped  her  lips  a  second  time.  Martin's  future 
was  exceedingly  safe  with  Martin.  From  that  certainty 
she  drew  consolation,  and  her  own  rare  powers  of  pa- 
tience did  the  rest.  He  was  gone  to  be  educated,  to  learn 
the  first  lessons  of  a  larger  life  than  Hartland  could 
show  him,  and  to  mix  with  a  higher  class  than  his  own. 
She  did  not  fear  for  him.  He  was  a  kindly  boy,  and  she 
had  brought  him  up  to  obedience  and  consideration  for 
elder  people.  His  niggard  instincts  she  did  not  deplore 
in  the  light  of  her  husband's  character.     They  were  a 

204 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  205 

shield  to  him,  and  she  hoped  for  future  fruit  from  them. 
A  time  must  come  when  the  lad's  nature  would  enter 
into  closer  union  or  combat  with  Philip's.  That  time, 
indeed,  was  near,  for  the  man  continued  little  more  than 
a  boy  in  many  large  particulars,  while  the  boy  had  ever 
been  precocious,  thoughtful,  and  not  overmuch  wedded 
to  childish  things.  He  went  away  eager  to  learn  and 
eager  to  please.  Unity  therefore  returned  to  her  work 
now  with  no  tears  in  her  eyes  and  a  measure  of  peace  at 
her  heart. 

On  Merripit  Hill  a  group  of  children  was  assembled 
to  take  leave  of  Martin.  He  did  not  lack  for  friends,  and 
among  them  were  two  of  his  cousins  from  Stannon : 
Minnie  and  Jacky  Crymes.  The  girl  was  shooting  up 
into  some  beauty.  Her  eyes  still  wondered  at  all  they 
saw ;  still  asked  their  question  of  the  world  and  its  ways 
as  life  dawned  upon  her  understanding.  Her  affection 
for  Martin  was  ver.y  real,  and  he  liked  her  well — better 
than  he  showed.  She  seemed  beautiful  to  him,  and  her 
part  of  humble  pupil  and  listener  at  all  times,  pleased 
the  boy.  Few  children  would  heed  him  when  he  was 
serious,  but  she  cared  most  for  him  at  such  hours,  and 
never  wearied  of  his  second-hand  knowledge  and  youth- 
ful dogmatism.  He  and  she  often  lost  themselves  in 
speculations  concerning  the  larger  world  and  the  things 
that  flashed  to  them  sometimes  from  old  newspapers. 
Their  mothers  marked  the  friendship,  and  Gertrude 
Crymes  was  pleased  at  it,  but  Unity  hid  her  mind. 

Now  Jacky  flourished  his  cap,  while  the  rest  shouted 
and  Minnie  waved  a  wet  handkerchief.  Philip,  who  had 
pulled  up  a  moment  for  the  leave-taking,  marked  her 
sorrow,  and  his  heart  went  out  to  the  little  girl.  He 
thought  of  her  afterwards,  exalted  her  sentiments  to 
Martin,  and  loved  her.  And  then,  as  they  trotted  along, 
the  man  uttered  his  words  of  wisdom  and,  after  his  kind, 
counselled  much  beyond  his  own  power  ever  to  put  in 
practice.  Sometimes  Martin  secretly  dissented;  but  he 
listened  quietly,  made  manj^  promisees,  and  often  said, 
'Thank  you,  father,  I'll  remember.' 

"Be  sporting  always,"  said  Philip.    "There's  no  call 


206  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

for  me  to  tell  you  about  being  good,  because  you've  got 
all  that  from  mother.  But  there's  just  a  few  things  a 
woman — not  even  the  best — can  teach  a  boy,  and  they 
be  summed  up  in  that  word,  'sporting.'  You'll  have  to 
play  all  manner  of  games  that  you  ban't  used  to,  and  in 
the  heat  of  'em,  if  you  be  keen  to  win,  as  you  should  be, 
there  come  moments  when  there's  a  temptation  some- 
times to  do  things  that  ban 't  right  or  fair.  Always  play 
fair,  and  think  fair;  and  if  you  win,  don't  crow  about 
it,  and  if  you  lose,  don't  fret.  You'm  a  fine  chap,  with 
long  legs  and  a  great  power  of  running,  so  I  lay  they'll 
be  glad  to  have  you  in  their  games.  And  nought  will  please 
me  better  than  to  hear  they  've  chose  you  presently.  The 
book  larning  will  take  care  of  itself  with  such  a  one  for 
reading  as  you  be ;  but  mind  and  go  in  for  the  sport  too. ' ' 

''So  I  will  then,  father." 

"And  don't  be  near,  mind.  I  wanted  to  give  you  a 
bit  more  in  your  pocket,  but  still,  as  mother  says,  you 
wouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  Give  where  'tis 
proper  to  give  and  share  the  hampers  I  be  going  to  send 
you.  And  don 't  you  think  I  shan  't  see  you  till  the  holi- 
days, because  I  shall.  And  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  a 
tempted  mother  over  in  a  month  or  so  for  a  sight  of  you. 
She  won 't  want  much  tempting,  I  lay ! ' ' 

"It  would  be  very  nice  to  look  forward  to  it.  But 
mother  won 't  do  that. ' ' 

"Take  my  word  she  shall.  A  bit  strange  you  must 
feel  at  first,  but  you'll  soon  settle  down  and  make  friends ; 
and  choose  the  chaps  as  be  good  out  of  doors  as  well  as 
at  their  books.  And  write  and  tell  me  all  about  every- 
thing. And  mind  you  stick  up  for  yourself  from  the 
first,  Martin.  I'd  fought  many  a  pitched  battle  afore 
I  was  your  age ;  I  took  and  gave  and  was  none  the  worse. 
Not  as  I  want  you  to  go  fighting,  I'm  sure.  But  the 
boy  as  quarrels  with  you  will  be  the  sort  as  wants  knock- 
ing about,  and  if  you  reckon  you  can  do  it,  or  even  if 
you  fear  you  can't,  go  for  him  just  the  same." 

"I  shan't  quarrel  with  nobody  if  they  don't  quarrel 
with  me." 

"Quite  right;  and  if  they  do,  don't  you  cave  in,  but 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  207 

show  'em  how  a  Dartymoor  chap  can  hold  his  own.  Then 
they"'ll  soon  larn  to  respect  you.  Mother  will  write  how 
we  go  on,  and  I  reckon  Tiger  will  try  his  fist  at  it,  though 
his  penmanship  ban't  very  grand." 

"I'll  write  to  Tiger  about  things  that  would  interest 
him." 

"Do  so — 'twill  be  good  for  him  to  know.  I'm  glad 
you  thought  of  that." 

They  parted  presently,  and  the  boy  went  out  placidly 
to  join  two  other  new  arrivals  in  the  playground.  His 
father  drove  away,  stopped  in  Bovey,  made  some  pur- 
chases, drank  with  sundry  friends,  and  then  returned 
home.  His  wife  heard  every  incident  of  the  day,  but 
declined  Philip's  proposal  that  she  should  call  with  him 
to  see  her  son  in  a  week  or  two. 

"No,  no;  that  won't  do,"  she  declared.  "  'Twill  only 
throw  him  off  his  books  and  make  him  restless.  I  told 
him  that  I  shouldn't  see  him  till  the  holidays,  and  'tis 
better  far  you  shouldn't  neither.  I  lay  schoolmaster 
don't  want  you  messing  about  at  Bovey." 

"Quite  right,  quite  right,"  declared  Philip  instantly. 
"Right  as  a  nail;  but,  you  see,  there'll  be  hampers  now 
and  again,  and  my  business  will  take  me  to  Bovey  some- 
times, no  doubt,  and — what  with  one  thing  and  another, 
I  shan  't  be  able  to  help  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  nipper 
off  and  on.    Couldn  't  help  it  if  I  would. ' ' 

She  smiled  and  Tiger  grinned. 

Later  on,  as  the  term  advanced,  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom, 
meeting  with  Gregory  Twigg's  wife,  uttered  one  of  her 
rare  laughs  and  stated  the  case. 

"My  boy?  Very  happy,  I  do  believe,  and  very  good 
for  sartin.  'Tis  funny  what  a  lot  of  business  Phil  finds 
to  Bovey  nowadays — a  place  as  he  never  had  no  dealings 
with  afore  last  Easter ! ' ' 

"The  boy  draws  him  as  the  childer  will  the  parent's 
heart,"  said  Mrs.  Twigg.  She  was  a  watery  edition  of 
the  innkeeper.  She  thought  as  he  thought,  believed  as 
he  believed,  judged  as  he  judged,  and,  in  a  fashion,  even 
spoke  as  he  spoke,  and  uttered  tangled  shreds  and  patches 
from  his  deep  stores  of  piety  and  platitude. 


208  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

"Yes,  the  boy  draws  him;  but  'twould  be  better  if 
he  stopped  farther  off— far  better." 

"No  doubt.  The  young  must  fight  their  own  battles. 
Us  can  only  buckle  on  the  shield  of  Truth  for  'em  and 
set  them  the  example  of  steadfastness.  Martin  be  very 
like  my  Alfred  in  his  disposition — a  soaring  child.  He'll 
walk  into  the  bar  among  grown  men  and  they'll  listen 
to  him  without  a  murmur.  'Tis  a  case  of  being  actually 
born  a  Little  Baptist.  As  Mister  Twigg  says,  'tis  better 
than  being  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  your  mouth,  like 
your  boy.  'Tis  the  silver  spoon  of  the  Spirit  that  our 
Alfred  have  got — to  put  it  like  my  husband  does." 

There  came  a  day  when  Tiger  and  his  master  went 
down  to  the  great  peat  cuttings  under  Archerton  Tor, 
to  carve  out  winter  fuel.  The  weather  of  early  July 
was  hot  and  fine;  the  peat  already  spread — piled  cake 
against  cake — like  tiny  tents  of  some  great  fairy  encamp- 
ment on  the  heath. 

A  haunt  of  beauty  was  this  place,  whence  came  their 
winter  warmth  for  the  upland  men.  Its  lines  and  clefts 
brought  ripe  colour  upon  the  waste;  its  dusky  walls 
here  shone,  cut  freshly  from  the  peat  sponge,  here  rose, 
weathered  to  rich  harmonies  of  yellow  and  grey.  From 
agate  to  ebony  the  peat  beds  ranged  in  their  colour. 
Within  their  chocolate-hued  hearts,  and  on  each  shimmer- 
ing pool,  sedgy  marsh,  and  shaking  mire,  bloomed  half 
a  hundred  different  flowers;  the  sphagna  beds  were 
brighter  still  and  full  of  lemon  and  orange,  emerald 
and  purple.  They  massed  and  spread  and  made  rich 
setting  of  the  flower  jewels  of  the  bog;  they  hid  the 
fount  of  the  spring,  yet  declared  its  presence  from  far 
off. 

Upon  the  peat  beds  cotton  grass  danced  silvery,  and 
the  buckbean's  fairy  flowers  ascended  above  their  trefoil 
green.  The  red  rattle  sparkled  in  its  lacework  of  foliage ; 
the  heather  sprang  like  a  flower  cornice  along  the  black 
slab  walls  of  the  cuttings;  and  by  rill  and  pool  were 
lifted  shy,  small  spires  of  the  sun-dew  and  the  frail  atom 
of  the  butterwort's  blossom — as  though  it  had  been  a 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  209 

little  amethyst  fly  that  hovered  above  each  grey  rosette. 
Round  about  the  land  sloped  upward  from  this  bottom, 
and  to  the  north  Archerton's  flat  crown  of  stones  capped 
a  gentle  hill. 

Tiger  piled  the  unctuous  slabs  of  dripping  soil  while 
Ouldsbroom,  who  enjoyed  peat-cutting,  carved  at  the 
ridge,  and  with  rhythmic  sweep  of  the  knife  made  each 
downward  stroke,  then  used  the  peat-iron  and  flung  cake 
after  cake  upon  the  heather. 

He  rested  presently,  and  the  boy  brought  him  a  little 
runlet  of  cider. 

' '  Only  a  fortnight, ' '  said  Philip.  ' '  Only  thirteen  days, 
to  be  exact,  and  he'll  come  home  along.  I  be  cudgelling 
my  brains  a 'ready  to  think  of  good  sport  for  him." 

"He'll  want  nought  but  that  beautiful  boss,"  pro- 
phesied Tiger.  "The  only  thing  about  Dartymoor  as  he 
cares  about  be  riding,  and  even  then  he'd  never  ride 
along  hunting  or  anything  of  that.  He  told  me  once, 
when  I  slew  a  want,*  that  he  hated  killing  things,  and 
he'd  read  in  a  book  us  hadn't  got  the  right  to  do  it. 
'  What  about  thicky  long-cripple  as  bit  you  ? '  I  axed  him. 
'  Twas  my  fault, '  said  he.  '  If  I  hadn  't  stepped  on  it  I  'd 
have  got  no  hurt. '    But  for  riding  you  can 't  beat  him. ' ' 

"  'Tis  the  very  truth,"  declared  Philip;  "built  for  the 
saddle  far  better  than  me.  Have  'e  marked  how  long 
he  runs  from  fork  to  knee  ?  'Tis  so  he  gets  his  beautiful 
natural  seat.  Wonnerful  hands  too.  Might  have  gone 
for  a  jockey  if  he'd  been  a  little  un." 

Thought  of  Martin  as  a  jockey  made  the  jovial  Tiger 
laugh  aloud. 

' '  Lord !  the  cruel  funny  things  you  say,  master, ' '  he 
cried  in  ecstasy. 

"Of  course  'twasn't  in  his  nature,"  explained  Philip. 
"I  ban't  the  sort  that  expects  miracles,  and  I  wouldn't 
no  more  ax  you  to  cram  your  head  with  book-learning 
than  Martin  to  do  things  what  you  do  very  clever.  I'm 
only  saying  the  cleverness  was  there. ' ' 

"There's  nothing  he  wasn't  clever  enough  to  do," 
declared  Tiger. 

*  Want — A  mole. 

14 


210  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

Distance  lent  its  kindly  veil  to  the  hearts  of  boy  and 
man.  They  united  in  praising  Martin,  and  when  Tiger 
called  up  some  feat  of  skill  or  trick  of  speech,  Philip  ap- 
plauded him  and  capped  the  recollection  with  another. 

Anon  Martin  arrived  home  in  triumph:  happy  and 
healthy  and  full  of  learning.  He  brought  with  him  a 
black  eye  and  a  prize  for  good  conduct.  The  latter  Philip 
regarded  as  inevitable;  the  former  pleased  him  more, 
until  he  learned  that  it  had  only  come  from  misfielding 
a  cricket  ball. 

But  there  was  rejoicing  that  night  in  the  house,  and 
ere  he  went  to  bed  the  farmer  made  Martin  read  aloud 
from  his  favourite  chapter  in  Job. 

"On  great  days,  such  as  this  be,  I  do  like  to  hear  the 
twenty-eighth,"  said  Ouldsbroom.  "  'Twas  Barbara  set 
me  on  to  it  scores  of  years  ago,  and  there's  fine  things  in 
it  for  every  time.  But  nought  finer  than  this.  So  wet 
your  whistle,  Martin,  and  let's  have  it." 

The  boy  was  very  willing,  and  when  he  had  done,  all 
praised  him  and  declared  that  his  reading  had  now 
attained  perfection. 


CHAPTER  III 

For  years  had  Philip  continued  to  trust  that,  under  the 
patent  qualities  of  his  mother,  there  might  in  Martin 
lurk  latent  some  attributes  of  his  own.  With  time  this 
hope  was  called  to  die,  and  Ouldsbroom  suffered  in  the 
process.  He  received  and  accepted  it  reluctantly ;  strove 
to  evade  it ;  at  times  denied  it.  But,  while  a  man  of  little 
wisdom,  his  perceptions  were  not  dull.  He  faced  the 
truth  and  was  constrained  to  allow  that  Martin  varied 
from  him  as  widely  as  boy  could  vary  from  man.  Until 
the  present  this  fact  had  not  lessened  his  devotion.  In 
his  darker  hours  he  fretted  at  it ;  in  his  happy  moments — 
and  they  were  still  not  few — he  declared  that  it  was  well, 
and  that  a  sane  father  should  be  proud  of  getting  a 
cleverer  son  than  himself.  But  he  was  tenacious  at  cer- 
tain points,  and  the  hearty  delight  that  he  declared  when 
Martin  elected  to  be  a  farmer  grew  a  little  clouded  in 
circumstances  that  followed. 

Philip's  sole  vanity  might  have  been  said  to  lie  in  a 
conviction  that  his  knowledge  of  Dartmoor  agriculture 
was  complete  and  final.  He  trod  in  the  steps  of  his  father 
and  his  father's  father.  Innovation  was  offensive  to  him, 
and  he  resented  advice  upon  his  business.  While,  there- 
fore, not  jealous  of  others;  while  he  was  content  that 
Martin  should  make  new  friends,  enlarge  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  win  wider  measure  of  attention,  a  thing  that 
did  not  please  him  was  the  boy 's  attitude  to  his  new  and 
vital  interest.  Martin  said  that  he  wished  to  be  a  farmer, 
and  Philip  rejoiced,  since  such  a  wish  brought  the  boy 
closer  to  him ;  but  Unity  did  not  rejoice,  neither  did  she 
mourn,  for  she  believed  the  wish  a  whim;  she  felt  as- 
sured that  education  would  lift  her  son's  ambition  to 
higher  things. 

211 


212  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

For  the  present,  in  holiday  time,  Martin  addressed 
himself  to  the  routine  work  of  Hartland ;  and  then  it  was 
that  what  had  promised  so  great  a  delight  to  the  master 
proved,  in  the  event,  a  source  of  tribulation. 

Because,  now  the  growing  child  began  to  show  more 
than  his  mother's  qualities,  and  as  the  mingled  oils  of 
ancestry  that  burned  in  his  lamp  of  life  added  each  its 
own  quality  to  his  nature,  there  came  the  light  of  new 
things.  Martin's  character  began  to  develop — clean-cut 
and  decisive.  He  was  religious-minded,  he  was  thrifty, 
and  he  was  thorough.  He  lacked  imagination  and  the 
sunnier  qualities — a  want  which,  thus  early  declared, 
promised  austerity  when  manhood  dawned.  He  revealed 
not  only  a  sense  of  justice,  but  also  a  strong  inclination 
to  judge.  He  thought  a  great  deal  and  wondered  a  great 
deal  about  his  father.  His  mother's  attitude  especiall.y 
puzzled  him.  From  the  present  standpoint  of  his  ex- 
perience, he  could  not  understand  why  Unity  condoned 
incidents  and  passed  utterances  that  he  knew  won  dis- 
pleasure from  her.  His  eyes  grew  round  sometimes  when 
his  mother  nodded,  showed  no  concern,  and  said,  'Have 
it  as  you  please,  master,'  to  some  assertion  or  intention 
expressed  by  her  husband.  Martin  puzzled  to  understand 
why  she  hid  her  true  opinion  and  even  pretended  agree- 
ment, when  right  well  he  knew  that  she  thought  his 
father  wrong.  Personally  he  had  not  yet  dared  to  con- 
tradict Ouldsbroom;  but  each  day  found  him  better 
armed  and  at  wider  variance  from  the  elder's  opinions. 
His  old,  childish  devotion  to  Philip  was  also  fading  away 
in  the  light  of  larger  ideas  and  increasing  knowledge. 
It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  win  much  further  joy  of  such 
a  man. 

The  matter  culminated  when  Martin,  now  home  for  the 
summer  holidays,  began  to  read  a  book  lent  to  him  by 
one  of  his  schoolmasters.  He  interested  his  teachers,  and 
they  were  willing  to  help  him.  The  work  concerned  the 
chemistry  of  soil,  and  indicated  modern  methods  of  learn- 
ing first  the  constituents  of  a  given  earth  and  then  adding 
thereto  the  special  properties  required  by  different  crops. 
Philip  knew  little  of  such  a  subject  and  eared  less.    He 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  213 

was  wout  to  saj^  that  his  stable  supplied  everything  that 
the  hungriest  ground  could  cry  for.  He  pointed  to  his 
own  produce,  and  was  content  to  contrast  it  with  that  of 
his  poorer  neighbours.  Agriculture  did  not  interest  him, 
and  his  particular  pursuit  was  breeding  of  beasts. 

Now  Martin  began  to  air  the  new  knowledge,  and  when 
Philip,  thunderstruck,  asked  him  what  nonsense  he  was 
talking  about,  he  blushed  and  burnt  to  the  heart  with 
a  sense  of  injustice.  He  had  planned  his  little  items  of 
information  very  carefully.  He  had  taken  the  guide 
as  infallible,  for  it  belonged  to  his  nature  to  trust  books; 
and  he  brought  out  the  modern  opinions  when  walking 
upon  the  land  in  late  August  with  Ouldsbroom. 

It  happened  that  what  he  said  ran  counter  to  Philip's 
most  rooted  convictions.  The  elder  had  just  uttered 
some  moth-eaten  wisdom  current  in  his  grandfather's 
time,  and  upon  it,  seeing  that  the  moment  was  apposite, 
Martin  piped  in  with  his  chemistry. 

' '  'Tis  in  my  book, ' '  he  said  with  a  wounded  voice  upon 
the  farmer's  rough  challenge. 

''Is  it?  Then  you'd  better  burn  your  book;  and  if 
t 'others  tell  the  like  trash,  then  burn  the  lot,  and  be 
damned  to  'em  and  the  fools  that  wrote  'em.  Don't  you 
never  spout  your  books  to  me  till  I  ax  you  to,  my  fine 
chap.  Larning  be  all  right,  but  it  don't  always  square 
with  facts — remember  that.  If  the  know-nought  fool  who 
printed  that  stuff  was  to  step  up  along  from  his  chemist's 
shop  to  Dartymoor  and  listen  to  me  for  an  hour,  no  doubt 
he  'd  tear  up  his  twaddle  and  be  sorry  ever  he  wrote  it. ' ' 

"But,  father " 

"Don't  'but'  me.  'Tis  lies,  and  there  are  three  acres 
of  ground  under  your  nose  to  prove  it.  If  you  want  to 
larn  your  job,  come  to  your  father,  who'd  forgot  more 
than  this  book-writer  ever  knew,  before  you  was  born. 
And  if  you  think  to  teach  me  my  business,  Martin,  in- 
stead of  coming  to  me  to  learn  yours,  then  you'll  do 
better  to  change  your  mind  once  for  all  and  keep  away 
from  Hartland  when  you  grow  up." 

' '  I  only  thought  'twould  be  interesting  to  you  to  hear. ' ' 

"Don't  think  such  foolishness  no  more  then.     Teach 


214  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

me  all  you  can  about  the  things  I  don't  know,  and  larn 
from  me  the  things  I  do.  And  one  thing  is  that  nobody 
on  God 's  earth  be  going  to  get  a  better  turnip  out  of  that 
field,  or  heavier  oats  out  of  t'other  than  what  I  can.  If 
you  want  to  farm  Hartland,  come  to  your  father,  and 
don 't  let 's  have  no  more  silliness  out  of  books.  Good  God 
Almighty!  to  stick  up  that  little  thin  atomy  of  a  book 
you  pore  over  and  put  it  afore  what  I  know !  I  wish  I  'd 
got  the  fool  who  wrote  it  here — to  sweat  for  it  and  freeze 
for  it  and  drown  for  it  a  bit  in  the  ups  and  downs  of  our 
weather.  Then  we  'd  see  what  would  become  of  his  ideas 
and  all  this  blasted  mess  they  tell  about  to  fling  upon 
land  nowadays.  When  they've  poisoned  a  few  things 
and  killed  all  the  fish  in  the  river,  and  so  on,  they  '11  begin 
to  believe  the  farmers  understand  best,  I  dare  say.  And, 
be  it  as  'twill,  I  know  a  long  sight  better  than  to  let  any 
of  their  trash  inside  my  gate." 

"I'll  say  nothing  more  about  it,  father." 
"So  much  the  better,  Martin.     And  if  you  want  to 
please  me,  you  '11  burn  the  book  and  be  done  with  it. ' ' 
' '  'Tis  a  lent  book.    I  must  take  it  back. ' ' 
"And  tell  'em  what  I  say  about  it,  and  ax  'em,  with  my 
compliments,  to  larn  you  a  bit  better. " 

"When  he  went  home  the  boy  put  his  book  in  his  box  and 
presently  told  Unity  of  what  had  happened.  She  took 
his  side,  yet  bade  him  obey  his  father.  It  was  one  of  the 
occasions  when  her  attitude  puzzled  his  sense  of  justice ; 
but  if  she  left  him  something  to  think  about,  the  mother 
herself  remained  with  a  still  harder  problem.  ■•  Unity  saw 
the  difficulties  now. rising  ahead,  and  she  perceived  that 
they  must  increase  with  Martin's  advancement  in  know- 
ledge and  understanding.  The  line  of  least  resistance 
presented  itself,  and  she  felt  that  it  would  be  well,  once 
for  all,  to  wean  Martin  from  farming  as  a  future.  Her 
power  over  him  was  great  and  she  did  not  anticipate 
much  difficulty.  The  danger  of  the  task  lay  with  Philip, 
and  she  knew  that  if  he  guessed  her  purpose,  or  saw  it  in 
operation,  he  would  become  deeply  angered.  Her  patience 
with  him  continued  to  sustain  the  home;  but  sometimes, 
as  at  this  juncture,  she  felt  the  severity  of  the  strain. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  215 

Occasionally  she  found  herself  doubting  whether  patience 
was  always  wise,  whether,  as  he  grew  more  headstrong, 
some  manifestation  of  her  power,  rather  than  her  pa- 
tience, might  not  prove  more  salutary  and  more  sane. 

Upon  the  other  side  there  fell  rare  moments  in  the  hus- 
band 's  mind,  when  he  went  under  a  cloud  that  shadowed 
his  customary  enthusiasm  with  respect  to  Unity.  Once 
he  confessed  to  Barbara  that  he  had  come  from  feeling 
the  sharp  edge  of  her  tongue.  He  laughed  it  off  the  next 
day  and  accused  himself  of  injustice  and  folly  in  ever 
thinking  that  his  wife  could  be  severe  to  him.  He  took 
all  the  blame;  assured  Miss  Hext  that  he  had  richly  de- 
served a  scolding,  and  declared  that  the  wonder  was  he 
received  so  few;  but  she  understood.  She  marked  how 
that  his  wife  was  rather  less  often  on  Ouldsbroom's  lips, 
how  his  fits  of  admiration  and  shouts  of  applause  at  her 
cleverness  and  tact  waned  a  little  in  their  frequency. 
The  thing  had  become  a  habit  with  him  and  the  practice 
of  praising  Unity  persisted ;  but  the  old  emphasis,  the 
sudden  beam  of  countenance  and  rise  of  colour  when  he 
named  her  were  rarer.  None  save  the  postmistress  had 
noted  the  change,  for  it  developed  slowly  through  a 
period  of  years;  but  she  marked  it  and  grieved  for  it; 
she  asked  herself  whether  any  sort  of  remedy  existed, 
and  knew  that  there  was  none. 

Thought  upon  Philip's  future  often  made  this  woman 
sad.  She  herself  had  aged  of  late,  and  sometimes  felt 
sorry  that  she  must  pass  before  the  crisis  of  Ouldsbroom's 
life  broke  upon  him.  But  she  comforted  herself  with 
reasonable  trust  in  the  possibilities  of  chance.  Chance 
might  lift  the  shadow  yet  for  him;  chance  might  thrust 
aside  the  threat  of  the  storm  and  clear  his  horizon  of  a 
gloom  that  began  to  gather  upon  it  in  her  ageing  eyes. 

The  holidays,  regarded  as  a  period  of  joy  and  intimacy 
for  Martin  among  his  own,  proved  a  partial  failure.  He 
was  immensely  delighted  with  the  horse  that  Philip  had 
got  for  him;  but  he  spent  so  much  time  upon  it  that 
Ouldsbroom  often  failed  to  see  him  through  a  whole  day. 
For  fishing  he  cared  not  at  all ;  and  when  September  came 
and  he  spent  long  hours  in  carrying  his  father's  game- 


216  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

bag  over  the  bogs  after  snipe,  he  could  only  once  be  made 
to  fire ;  and  then  he  missed. 

Coming  home  again  he  ventured  to  explain  to  Philip 
that,  as  Tiger  had  said  of  him,  he  did  not  like  killing 
things;  but  an  attitude  more  irrational  in  his  father *s 
eyes  could  ill  have  been  imagined.  Philip  talked  to  the 
other  boy  about  it,  and  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  it  was 
unnatural — a  pathological  condition  in  Martin  calling 
for  serious  treatment. 

He  said : 

"Sport  be  as  proper  to  a  lad  as  mousing  to  an  owl. 
Martin  must  be  sick  not  to  like  it.  Who  ever  heard  tell 
of  a  nipper  near  fifteen  not  wanting  to  catch  trout  or 
fire  a  gun?" 

"  'Tis  terrible  eoorious  in  him,"  confessed  Tiger.  **I 
never  seed  nothing  so  strange ;  but  then  he 's  different  to 
us  common  boys.  I  lay  there  never  was  such  a  chap. 
'Tis  the  great  cleverness  in  him.  He  was  always  like 
that.  I  mind  a  year  ago,  when  I  found  a  gladdy's  nest 
and  strubbed  it,  he  catched  me  blowing  the  eggs  to  put 
along  with  others  for  a  necklace  for  Jonathan  French's 
sister,  and,  if  he  could  have  done  it,  he'd  have  given  me 
a  proper  hiding." 

Philip  was  interested  instantly.  He  looked  at  Tiger 
and  compared  the  boy's  large-boned,  stout-built  frame 
Avith  the  neater  and  taller  and  far  lighter  physique  of 
Martin. 

"  'Twould  be  very  interesting  to  see  you  chaps  have  a 
set  to  in  a  friendly  way,"  he  declared.  "You've  got  the 
powder,  and  you  could  take  all  and  more  than  Martin 
could  give,  I  reckon;  but  he's  got  the  reach  of  you  and 
he's  twice  as  quick  on  his  toes.  I  doubt  if  you  could  lick 
him,  though  he 's  younger. ' ' 

This  personal  aspersion  touched  Tiger  on  a  tender  spot. 

His  old  ambition  to  be  fierce  was  now  elevated  some- 
what. He  desired  at  present  only  to  be  prodigiously 
strong,  and  he  did  all  that  he  could  to  bring  this  condition 
about.  He  ate  like  a  wolf  and  worked  like  a  pony.  He 
watched  his  biceps  tenderly  and  investigated  his  ribs, 
loins,  thighs  and  calves  with  profound  affection.     He 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  217 

measured  himself  once  a  month  against  the  wall  of  the 
loft  wherein  he  slept;  and  if  his  frank  heart  held  one 
spark  of  envy  for  Unity's  child,  it  arose  from  Martin's 
superior  agility  and  superior  height.  That  there  could 
be  a  shadow  of  doubt  as  to  his  power  to  thrash  Martin, 
did  such  an  unthinkable  necessity  arise,  Tiger  would  not 
dream.  He  was  quite  startled  that,  of  all  men,  his  hero 
and  exemplar  entertained  a  question  upon  it.  He  felt, 
however,  that  the  subject  was  delicate,  and  some  spark 
of  feeling  silenced  him  now,  though  he  grew  very  red 
and  opened  his  mouth  to  answer. 

Philip  marked  the  emotion,  but  could  not  appreciate 
the  silence. 

''You  think  they  fat  arms  of  yours  would  soon  polish 
him  off.  But  we  won't  talk  of  it.  I'd  get  two  pair  of 
gloves  to-morrow,  only  he'd  never  don  'em.  He  ban't 
the  fighting  sort.  Though  plucky  enough,  mind  you. 
Tiger.  For  all  he's  so  terrible  unnatural,  he's  got  pluck. 
I  've  seen  him  show  it  with  a  bull  afore  to-day. ' ' 

"So  he  has,"  acknowledged  Tiger.  "Besides,  the 
missis  would  soon  send  me  to  the  right-about  if  I  get 
sparring  along  with  Master  Martin." 

"None  sends  you  to  the  right-about  but  me,  my  bold 
hero.     'Tis  to  be  'Master  Martin'  now — eh? 

"Ess,  it  is." 

The  farmer  considered. 

"Did  he  ax  you  to,  or  missis?" 

' '  Him !  No ;  he  never  would.  She  said  so  yesterday. 
'Tis  to  begin  from  when  he  comes  home  next  time." 

It  was  Philip 's  turn  to  keep  silence  though  tempted  to 
speech,  and  he  left  the  boy  abruptly. 

Martin's  solitary  rambles,  his  rides,  and  his  occasional 
visits  to  his  cousins  at  Stannon,  made  up  the  chief 
pleasure  of  his  holidays.  He  went  with  his  mother  twice 
to  Tavistock  market  and  drove  her  proudly.  Then  came 
the  time  for  going  back  to  school,  and  he  faced  the  ordeal 
without  regret. 

In  Philip's  heart  there  dawned  a  vague  sense  of  relief 
when  the  boy  was  about  to  go ;  but  it  vanished  instantly, 
and  sadness  took  its  place  after  he  was  gone.    Fond  hope 


218  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

— his  soul's  heritage — awoke.     He  explained  everything 
away. 

"  'Tis  always  the  winter  our  lad  likes  best,  I  do  be- 
lieve," he  said  to  his  wife.  "Us '11  give  him  some  proper 
fun  come  Christmas  time,  and  if  he  once  goes  out  for  a 
gallop  when  hounds  meet  hereabouts,  he's  bound  to  get 
the  hunting  fever.  Something  tells  me  that  he  will  do 
so,  for  'tis  a  very  common  thing  with  they  fox-hunters 
that  they  never  care  a  brass  farthing  about  any  other 
sport.    No  doubt  'tis  the  king  of  sports  for  that  matter. ' ' 


CHAPTER  IV 

On  a  day  when  autumn  was  far  spent  and  winter  again 
at  hand,  Unity  called  at  the  shop  of  Barbara  Hext  and 
fell  into  conversation  with  the  postmistress.  They  were 
not  friends,  but  entertained  a  very  genuine  respect  each 
for  the  other.  His  wife  knew  Philip 's  regard  for  Barbara 
and  was  aware  that  her  husband  heard  nothing  but  sense 
from  her.  The  elder  woman  had  sometimes  served  Oulds- 
broom  well  and  helped  him  to  wise  conclusions  when 
Unity's  arguments  proved  powerless  to  do  so.  She  felt 
in  debt  to  Miss  Hext,  and  never  hesitated  to  acknowledge 
it.  They  discussed  the  farmer  frankly,  and  he  knew  that 
they  did  and  cared  not. 

Of  late  Barbara  had  marked  a  little  acerbity  on  the 
other  woman's  tongue,  and  she  had  guessed  correctly  at 
the  reason. 

' '  No  currants, ' '  said  Philip 's  wife.  ' '  Such  good  things 
ban't  for  us  just  now.  Time  enough  for  currants  when 
Martin  comes  home." 

Barbara  nodded  and  ceased  to  weigh  a  weekly  ration. 

"Keeping  your  boy  at  this  big  school  calls  for 
thought. ' ' 

"It  does,  and  I'm  always  reminding  my  man  that  we 
must  remember  sixty  pounds  a  year  be  a  lot  of  money. 
But  what  cares  he?  He's  never  felt  a  pinch,  and  he 
snorts  if  I  say  a  word.  I'm  feared  of  my  life  for  our 
savings  sometimes.    He 's  too  old  to  be  so  rash,  Barbara. ' ' 

"He'd  sooner  be  rich  in  friends  than  money." 

"A  fool's  wish;  because  the  one  only  lasts  as  long  as 

219 


220  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

t'other.  You  can't  buy  friends  in  this  world;  you  can 
only  hire  'em;  and  if  pay  day  comes  round  and  the 
money's  gone,  you'll  soon  find  what  nine  in  ten  be 
worth." 

"A  bitter  word,"  answered  the  other;  ''but  I  don't 
say  it's  less  than  the  truth.  Philip  knows  nought  of 
human  nature ;  he  never  did,  and  never  will.  He  counts 
to  find  every  man  a  proper  man  and  every  woman  so 
clever  as  his  wife.  Yes,  he  asks  women  to  be  reasonable 
and  fools  to  be  wise.  Yet ;  when  you  offer  him  reason 
and  wisdom,  'tis  any  odds  but  he  '11  scorn  'em.  But  what 
a  nature  he  hath,  Unity !  Who  that 's  worth  their  salt 
but  cares  for  him?" 

"  'Tis  a  prettier  nature  for  outsiders  than  her  that's 
got  to  guide  it.  He's  more  difficult  than  he  was,  and  I'll 
tell  you  for  why.  As  he  gets  older  he  gets  busier,  and  I 
ban't  let  into  every  secret  now  till  it's  too  late." 

' '  He  does  love  to  surprise  folk  with  his  little  tricks  and 
plans. ' ' 

' '  Too  well  I  know  it.  Such  a  thing  be  making  me  sore 
this  minute,"  answered  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom.  "But  last 
week  he  thought  to  give  me  a  mighty  surprise,  and  he 
went  and  made  a  bargain  in  Tavistock  market  that  Tiger 
wouldn't  have  made,  let  alone  my  son.  He  was  fresh,  of 
course,  at  the  time,  as  I  got  to  hear  afterwards  through 
Jonathan  French.  But  there  it  was.  He  came  home  full 
of  a  great  secret,  and  wouldn't  let  it  out  till  morning. 
And  then  he  surprised  me  all  right,  no  doubt;  but 
'twasn't  the  sort  of  surprise  he'd  hoped;  and  when  I  ex- 
plained, so  quiet  as  I  could,  the  things  that  he  hadn't  re- 
membered, and  the  cruel  nonsense  of  flinging  away  five 
pounds — for  'twas  little  better — then " 

' '  I  know.  I  can  see  it  all  and  hear  every  word  he  said. 
I  admire  your  patience." 

"There's  other  things  beside  money.  I  can  speak 
to  you,  because  you  don't  tell  again,  Barbara,  and  you 
know  Philip  better  than  anybody  living  after  me. 
There's  a  thing  now  that's  growing  into  mischief,  if  it 
ban't  mischief  a 'ready,  and  that's  Tiger.  I've  nothing 
against  him:  he  makes  no  trouble  in  himself,  but  I  can't 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  221 

but  fear  he's  no  longer  the  best  companion  for  Martin 
in  holiday  time.    What  should  you  think?" 

"He's  got  his  work." 

"Yes ;  and  Martin  will  oft  go  and  help  him  at  it.  They 
be  as  different,  of  course,  as  chalk  from  cheese.  And 
that 's  not  all  neither :  my  husband  relies  more  and  more 
on  Tiger — so  far  as  a  man  can  rely  on  a  boy.  He  thinks 
a  lot  of  him. ' ' 

"Why  shouldn't  he?" 

"No  reason,  perhaps;  but  a  mother's  quick  to  smell 
danger  for  her  own.  Suppose  that  Philip  so  far  forgot 
himself  as  to  set  Tiger  before  Martin?  He's  just  the 
reckless  creature  to  do  it,  in  my  opinion.  Something 
might  gall  and  vex  him  and  he  might  dash  off  and " 

Miss  Hext  interrupted.  She  was  amazed  to  win  con- 
fidence from  one  who  gave  no  confidences;  but  she  was 
quick  to  feel  the  mother's  fear  and  glad  to  allay  it. 

"Don't  dream  of  such  a  thing.  Nobody — not  even 
you,  I  see — can  tell  exactly  what  Philip  feels  for  his  boy. 
He  has  wearied  my  ear — yes,  wearied  my  ear,  Unity,  with 
praise  of  Martin.  He's  taking  a  point  of  view  about  Mar- 
tin that's  very  much  indeed  to  his  credit,  in  my  opinion. 
Jealous  I  doubt  he  couldn't  be;  but  there  was  a  time 
when  he  grow^led  a  lot  to  think  his  son  was  so  different 
from  himself.  For  years  he  made  a  sort  of  silly  grievance 
of  it — you  know  he  did  as  well  as  I  do;  but  that's  all 
altered.  He's  as  proud  as  a  peacock  of  Martin  now. 
He'll  tell  me  by  the  hour  of  all  that  he  said  and  did  last 
holidays,  and  what  a  wonderful  thing  he  feels  it  to  have 
got  a  son  who  is  cleverer  than  he  is  himself.  There's  no 
danger  there.  He  likes  Tiger  very  well;  but  he  loves 
Martin  with  his  whole  heart." 

"Tiger  can  do  more  with  him,  however." 

"That's  natural  too.  Love  can't  always  be  counted 
upon  to  see  sense ;  and  the  more  we  love  people,  the  more 
our  view  of  them  is  twisted  out  of  clearness.  He  comes 
to  Martin  with  all  his  senses  strung  up — he 's  cruel  tender 
in  that  quarter ;  and  if  Martin  says,  a  word  he  weighs  it 
and  looks  at  it  from  a  dozen  points  of  view,  and  makes 
too  much  of  it  very  like,  or  doesn't  understand  it,  or 


222  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

reads  something  mistaken  into  it.  "With  Tiger  he  meets 
the  living  likeness  of  the  boy  he  must  have  been  him- 
self." 

"No,  he  don't,"  said  Unity.  "Tiger's  got  a  lot  more 
wits  already  than  my  husband.  And  that's  why  I  begin 
to  doubt  about  him.  Suppose  he  grows  crafty  come  a 
few  years?  Suppose  he  was  to  creep  up  my  husband's 
sleeve  and  do  harm  to  Martin?  'Tis  idle  to  shake  your 
head.    Such  things  do  happen. ' ' 

' '  I  laugh  at  you, ' '  declared  Miss  Hext.  * '  'Tisn  't  often 
anybody  does  that,  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom ;  but  knowing  what 
your  husband  thinks  of  his  boy,  and  what  Tiger  thinks 
of  him  too,  for  that  matter,  I  can 't  help  laughing.  Noth- 
ing on  earth — ^and  Tiger  last  of  all — will  cut  your  son 
out  with  his  father.  'Tis  only  ]\Iartin's  self  that  can  ever 
do  it;  and  for  my  part,  seeing  the  goodness  and  nice, 
quiet  ways  of  the  boy,  I  'm  positive  sure  that  'twill  never, 
never  be.  He's  growing  up,  and  his  brains  are  growing 
up  even  quicker  than  his  body.  Such  sense  you  seldom 
see  in  such  a  young  creature ;  and  that  sense  will  very 
soon  teach  him  to  understand  his  father  and  see  the  great- 
ness of  his  father,  and  let  the  real,  solid  part  of  Philip 
weigh  against  the  other  things.  I  do  hope  that  is  what 
will  happen ;  and  then  they  would  be  more  to  each  other 
in  the  future  than  ever  you  could  expect  them  to  have 
been  in  the  past." 

"It  sounds  a  hopeful  saying,"  answered  Unity,  "and 
I'll  try  to  find  it  so.  And,  if  you  want  to  do  me  a  kind 
turn  with  my  husband,  you  preach  thrift  to  him  in  sea- 
son and  out — that  and  steadiness.  I've  opened  my 
mouth  wider  to  you  to-day  than  ever  I  did  in  my  life 
afore  to  mortal  man  or  woman.  But  I  know  you'll  not 
put  what  I've  been  saying  to  evil  purpose.  'Tisn't  often 
in  such  a  small  place  as  this  you'd  find  two  women  with 
the  power  of  holding  their  tongues ;  but  you  and  me  both 
know  how  to  do  it. ' ' 

Unity  went  away,  and  the  elder's  conscience  pricked 
her  a  little.  She  had  been  surprised  into  saying  smooth 
things  that  were  not  quite  her  honest  conviction.  She 
reviewed  her  recent  assertion,  and  shook  her  head  at  her- 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  223 

self.  That  the  sense  of  Martin  would  ever  see  the  bright 
side  of  his  father,  or  appraise  the  worth  of  him  as 
weighed  against  the  worthlessness,  she  knew  was  im- 
possible. The  growing  sense  of  Martin  must  disapprove 
more  and  more  emphatically;  there  was  not  in  him  the 
power — even  had  love  inspired  a  wish — to  understand 
or  appreciate  the  qualities  that  made  such  a  man  as 
Philip  precious. 


CHAPTER  V 

Under  the  shoulder  of  Bellaford  Tor  there  stands  a  little 
grove  of  ragged  pines.  Many  have  perished,  yet  still  they 
rear,  stark  in  death,  among  their  living  neighbours.  Be- 
hind them,  on  an  evening  in  December,  sloped  Bellaford 's 
shoulder,  all  shining  with  light;  and  below.  Dart  wound 
with  many  a  curve  about  the  foothills  of  the  tor.  Earth 
and  sky  melted  together  in  one  fuliginous  darkness;  but 
in  the  notch  of  the  hills  behind  the  wood  a  brilliant 
orange  flame  glared  out  like  a  cresset  of  fire,  sent  flashes 
down  the  glen,  touched  the  twilight  murk,  and  flamed 
upon  the  fir  trees.  The  hour  was  mild  and  reeking  with 
moisture.  Torrential  rains  had  fallen  until  after  noon, 
and  the  sky  threatened  to  brim  over  once  more  ere  night 
should  come. 

Against  the  savage  radiance  between  the  hills  there 
moved  two  black  specks  in  the  direction  of  Postbridge. 
A  boy  and  girl  sauntered  together  homeward,  and  Tiger 
shortened  his  stride  to  keep  pace  with  the  feet  of  Mary 
French.  She  lived  with  her  brother  Jonathan  at  Teign 
Head,  for  the  youth  had  succeeded  his  dead  master  and 
was  now  a  shepherd  under  the  new  Moor-man  of  the 
Eastern  Quarter.  Tiger  was  Mary's  'friend'  in  the 
technical  acceptance  of  that  word.  It  signified  between 
them  mutual  amity  and  an  understanding  closer  than 
any  existing  with  others ;  but  it  meant  no  more.  Neither 
stood  committed,  and  each  was  at  liberty  to  establish 
another  friendship  if  he  or  she  pleased  to  do  so.  Tiger, 
however,  in  whom  the  dawn  of  sex  now  glowed,  hoped 
for  greater  things  from  Mary,  and  her  flaxen  hair,  long 
legs,  and  very  red  mouth  were  good  to  him.    As  for  her, 

224 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  225 

she  was  well  content  to  be  in  his  company,  and  she  knew 
that  with  a  rise  of  wages  Tiger  would  formally  invite 
her  to  become  betrothed. 

Mary  had  reached  seventeen;  but  Tiger's  birthday  was 
hidden  in  obscurity  and  his  exact  age  uncertain.  He  had 
always  regarded  himself  as  older  than  the  workhouse 
people  thought;  and  when  he  learned  the  date  of  Mary's 
birth,  decided  once  and  for  all  that  he  must  be  con- 
sidered exactly  a  year  older. 

They  talked  of  their  little  interests  and  hopes,  and  the 
lad  was  concerned  with  the  return  of  his  master's  son; 
while  Mary,  too,  felt  concerned  in  this  subject  upon  a 
side  issue. 

"Minnie  Crymes  be  properly  fond  of  him,"  she  said. 
"I  often  wonder  why,  for  she  ban't  his  friend.  She'm 
terrible  serious-minded,  and  did  ought  to  suit  him  down 
to  the  ground." 

' '  For  that  matter  she  do.  I  lay  his  hoss  will  take  him 
to  Stannon  oftener  than  out  fox-hunting,  for  all  master's 
so  set  on  it  for  him.  I'm  going  back  now,  this  instant 
moment,  to  help  with  some  fuzz-bushes  and  hurdles  we  'm 
setting  up  in  the  big  meadow.  They  be  for  us  to  jump 
Master  Martin's  hoss  over,  and  teach  un  to  be  clever 
against  he  comes  back.  He's  taking  to  it  kindly  too — the 
hoss,  I  mean." 

"A  lot  kinder  than  your  young  chap  will,  I  reckon." 

"Very  like.  But  the  master  be  so  resolved,  that  I  do 
hope  as  he'll  see  his  way  to  go  after  foxes.  I  wish  to 
goodness  I  could.  All  the  same,  Mr.  Ouldsbroom  be  such 
a  grand  hero  hisself,  and  so  fond  of  sport,  that  I  will  say 
he  don't  grudge  me  a  bit  of  fun  now  and  then.  I  be  a 
very  good  shotsman,  Mary,  and  next  time  I  shoot  a  game 
bird  I  '11  bring  it  up  over  to  you. ' ' 

' '  Thank  you  very  much,  Tiger. ' ' 

"Just  had  a  wonnerful  feed  to  Squire  ;^ackairs.  I 
went  down  at  daylight  with  a  pony  that  he've  bought 
from  us  for  his  little  girl.  And  I  stopped  to  the  kitchen 
dinner,  and  I  never  want  to  eat  better  food  or  more  at 
a  go.  A  footman  said  that  'Tiger'  was  the  right  name 
for  me,  after  he  had  seed  me  let  down  my  meal.    And  I 

15 


226  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

axed  if  they'd  like  to  look  at  my  arm  muscles,  but  they 
didn  't — for  shame,  no  doubt,  being  a  skinny  lot. ' ' 

"I  lay  they  was  nought  beside  you  for  strength." 

"Nought,  though  grown  up.  I  told  'em  they  didn't 
know  what  work  be.  'You  chaps,'  I  said,  'breaks  out  in 
a  presspiration  if  you've  got  to  carry  a  box  of  coals  in 
the  parlour.  But  I — I  could  drag  a  hundredweight  sack 
ten  mile  and  never  turn  a  hair,'  I  said  to  them.  Of 
course  they  wouldn't  believe  it — true  though  it  is." 

' '  You  couldn  't  expect  indoor  servants  to  be  like  you, ' ' 
said  Mary.  "I  never  yet  seed  an  indoor  man  as  hadn't 
got  a  cold  in  his  nose.  Poor,  pinnicking  things,  I 
reckon. ' ' 

As  they  approached  Hartland,  Philip,  at  work  in  a 
croft,  marked  the  boy  and  shouted  to  him. 

' '  Come  here,  you  caddlin '  rogue,  and  you  be  off,  Polly. 
I  lay  you  've  had  enough  of  the  rascal  for  one  day. ' ' 

She  laughed,  and  went  on  her  road,  while  the  boy 
hastened  to  his  master. 

"After  the  girls  a 'ready,  I  see,"  said  Ouldsbroom. 

"Not  me.  I  don't  care  nothing  for  'em  in  general. 
But  she's  different.    We'm  friends." 

' '  Glad  of  it.    I  ain  't  got  no  use  for  the  frosty  sort. ' ' 

"Us  might  go  so  far  as  to  get  tokened  come  I  get  a 
rise,"  said  Tiger,  striking  while  the  iron  was  hot. 

"You'll  have  to  wait  a  bit  for  that.  Money's  tight. 
Did  Squire  like  the  pony?" 

"He  did  then,  and  nothing  would  suit  miss  but  they 
put  the  saddle  on  that  instant  moment." 

' '  Lend  a  hand  with  these  hurdles, ' '  said  Philip.  ' '  And 
to-morrow  us  will  have  the  hoss  out  and  you  can  take 
him  over  'em." 

The  hurdles  were  set  up,  and  next  morning  Tiger  en- 
joyed some  exercise  on  Martin's  horse.  All  went  well, 
and  the  beast  appeared  to  enjoy  himself  as  much  as  the 
boy.  Philip  was  in  high  good  humour  and  praised  the 
steed  and  its  rider. 

"Always  knowed  there  was  a  bit  of  hunter  in  him,  and 
if  he  can  jump  'em  with  a  solid  lump  like  you  on  his 
back,  he  'II  fly  over  with  Martin. ' ' 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  227 

"So  he  will,  no  doubt,"  declared  Tiger.  "He  rides  a 
lot  better  than  me,  of  course. ' ' 

"He  does — not  that  you  ban't  very  clever,  but  he's 
built  for  the  saddle  and  you  aren't." 

They  practised  the  horse  daily  until  Martin  returned, 
and  he — warned  by  his  mother  of  the  trouble  that  had 
been  taken — essayed  to  show  interest.  He  felt  no  fear 
of  the  hurdles,  and  leapt  them  well ;  but  the  prospect  of 
hunting  gave  him  scant  pleasure.  To  satisfy  his  father, 
he  attended  three  meets,  and  Philip  heard  afterwards 
that  the  boy  had  ridden  straight  and  kept  well  up  as 
long  as  his  steed  could  gallop.  But  when  the  beast  be- 
came distressed,  he  had  stopped.  He  excused  himself 
from  another  attempt,  and  his  father  used  harsh  lan- 
guage at  finding  a  last  hope  dead. 

Martin  was  regretful,  but  the  incident  revealed  a  flash 
of  something  new  in  him.  He  showed  unexpected  firm- 
ness. He  explained  that  the  horse  was  his  own;  that  it 
was  not  a  hunter;  that  even  under  his  light  weight  it 
could  not  live  with  an  ordinary  Dartmoor  field. 

"Then  you  ought  to  make  up  in  cleverness  what  he 
lacks  in  pace,"  argued  Philip.  "You  know  the  Moor 
inside  out,  and  you  ought  to  be  so  well  up  in  short  cuts 
and  dodges,  that  you  ought  to  take  your  hoss  where 
t 'others  dare  not  go,  and  be  in  it  all  the  time — specially 
with  the  harriers.  I  won't  say  nothing  about  fox-hounds 
if  you'll  stick  to  the  harriers." 

"I'd  rather  not,  father.  I'd  much  sooner  just  go 
out  quiet  and  take  my  own  way  and  think  about  things. 
'Tis  no  pleasure  to  me  to  be  in  a  crowd  of  hounds  and 
people  and  all  the  rest  of  it. ' ' 

"You  might  think  of  my  pleasure,  then,  and  remem- 
ber I  'm  a  bit  wiser  than  you  still  and  a  bit  longer  sighted 
too.  A  time  will  come,  as  you  mean  to  turn  farmer,  when 
you'll  be  sorry  you  didn't  know  the  country-side  better. 
The  way  to  do  it  is  to  be  friendly  with  your  own  genera- 
tion and  make  friends  and  get  well  thought  upon.  Then, 
when  you  grow  up  and  take  your  share  in  the  work  of  the 
world,  there  you  are :  you  've  got  friends  waiting  every- 
where around." 


228  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"There's  other  ways  of  making  friends,  father,  besides 
hunting, ' '  declared  Martin ;  but  the  farmer  lost  his  tem- 
per and  called  the  boy  a  milksop  and  a  psalm-singing 
young  humbug. 

The  sabbatic  temperament  of  Martin  soon  learned  to 
value  these  outbursts  at  their  own  slight  worth.  They 
rose  and  passed  like  a  summer  storm,  and  the  boy 
mourned  them,  yet  did  not  suffer  largely  from  them. 
He  tried  hard  to  please  Philip,  and  in  some  directions 
succeeded. 

Martin  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  holiday  time  at  the 
house  of  Quinton  Crymes,  and  he  liked  his  aunt,  Gertrude 
Crymes,  right  well.  Her  piety  was  genuine.  He  dis- 
covered that  religion  was  more  to  her  than  to  his  mother. 
And  Minnie  proved  very  serious  too. 

He  took  walks  with  Minnie  and  imparted  much  of  his 
growing  knowledge  to  her.  She  loved  him  now,  and 
dearly  loved  him,  while  he  felt  pleasure  in  her  company 
and  a  lively  satisfaction  at  her  trust  and  faith  in  all  that 
he  said  or  did. 

He  talked  to  her  of  Tiger. 

"I'm  very  fond  of  him,"  said  Martin;  "but  I  wish 
he'd  let  me  tell  him  a  bit  about  serious  matters,  Minnie. 
He's  took  father  for  his  model  in  all  things;  but  there's 
another  side  to  it — good  as  father  is,  and  so  kind-hearted. 
He  doesn't  say  his  prayers  no  more — Tiger,  I  mean;  and 
when  he  used  to,  he  only  prayed  to  be  made  fierce ;  and 
when  he  gave  up  that  silliness,  he  only  prayed  to  have 
the  biggest  muscles  on  Dartymoor.  He  told  me  so,  and 
when  I  said  'twas  wrong,  he  said  that  a  chap  naturally 
prayed  for  what  he  wanted  most." 

"He's  awful  good  and  kind." 

"  In  a  way — yes ;  but  you  want  more  than  that.  You 
can't  live  your  life  without  help,  Minnie." 

"No,  Martin." 

"Tiger  hasn't  had  any  troubles  yet.  He  has  nobody 
to  care  for." 

"Yes,  he  has.    He's  friend  to  Mary  French." 

"That!  That's  nothing.  I  mean  he  hasn't  got  a 
father  or  mother  or  any  brothers  or  sisters." 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  229 

** That's  not  the  same  as  troubles,  Martin." 

"Not  with  you.  But  father  is  a  trouble  sometimes, 
because  I  know  he  does  wrong  things,  and  it  isn't  my 
place  to  interfere." 

"I  suppose  we  all  do  wrong  things  sometimes,  Martin. 
But  my  mother  and  father  never  seem  to  do  any. ' ' 

"More  does  my  mother.  If  father  would  only  listen 
to  her  more.     She's  very  wise,  Minnie." 

"So  mother  always  says,  Martin." 

"Tiger,  you  see,  hasn't  got  more  than  bare  reading 
and  writing,  and  doesn't  want  more.  I  offered  to  give 
him  some  lessons  of  an  evening  in  figures,  because  I'm 
pretty  good  at  figures  for  my  age;  but  he  said  that  he 
hadn't  got  no  use  for  them  at  present.  What  interests 
him  about  school  are  the  fights  and  games,  and  so  on. ' ' 

"You're  so  different,  Martin." 

"Games  are  very  interesting,  but  I  don't  care  for  any 
but  cricket." 

There  had  come  a  new  pastor  to  the  chapel  of  the  Little 
Baptists,  and  Martin  asked  Minnie  what  her  mother 
thought  of  him. 

"Mother's  not  very  pleased  with  him,"  she  answered. 
"She  says  he's  too  young  to  have  got  to  know  what  sor- 
row and  trouble  mean.  And  a  pastor  as  don 't  know  that, 
mother  says,  ban 't  going  to  be  useful  yet  awhile. ' ' 

Martin  considered. 

'  *  Has  he  got  a  fine  run  of  words  ? "  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  "You'd  better  ask 
mother.  He 's  shorter  in  his  prayers  than  what  Mr.  Medli- 
cott  was." 

"What  does  Mr.  Twigg  think  about  him?" 

"I  couldn't  tell  you,  Martin." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  him  for  myself,"  declared  the 
boy;  "but  I  always  go  to  church  along  with  mother,  and 
I  don't  know  whether  she'd  like  for  me  to  go  to  chapel." 

"Perhaps  she'd  come.  I've  heard  father  and  mother 
say  that  she  always  used  to  go  afore  she  was  married. ' ' 

"I  know;  but  she's  a  thought  against  the  Little  Bap- 
tists, if  anything,  now.  Father's  so  hard  on  'em  that  he's 
set  mother  against  'em  a  bit,  I  fancy." 


230  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"She  might  come  and  hear  the  new  gentleman,  now- 
ever. ' ' 

"I  never  thought  to  ask  her  to  do  it.  But  there 
wouldn't  be  no  harm  done  in  asking  her." 

Martin  was  impressed  with  the  idea,  and  kept  silence 
for  some  time  while  he  reflected  upon  it.  The  children 
went  home  to  tea  presently.  His  holiday  was  nearly  at 
an  end,  and  he  had  come  to  say  good-bye  to  aunt  and 
uncle.  Now  he  asked  Mrs.  Crymes  concerning  Gregory 
Twigg's  opinion  of  the  new  pastor. 

"Mr.  Twigg  haven't  given  me  the  benefit  of  his  judg- 
ment yet,"  she  answered,  "only  I  happen  to  know  what 
he  said  to  his  wife.  He's  a  little  uneasy  on  doctrine ;  he's 
going  to  speak  to  Mr.  Bewes  himself  and  throw  some 
light.    Mr.  Bewes  is  only  thirty-four." 

But  this  seemed  a  great  age  to  Martin. 

"I  should  like  to  hear  him,"  he  said. 

' '  There 's  nothing  against  his  words.  He 's  very  earnest 
and  his  face  shines.  Beautiful  words,  and  a  voice  that 
makes  you  jump,  after  so  many  years  of  Mr.  Medlicott's 
weak  pipe.  But  there's  no  warmth  to  the  man.  He  han't 
a  very  patient  person  by  the  sound  of  him.  But  no  doubt 
'twill  all  come." 

The  boy  parted  from  them  presently  and  returned 
home  again.  Minnie  went  as  far  as  the  gate  with  him, 
and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  when  he  said  '  Good-bye. ' 
He  saw  them,  but  they  did  not  move  him  except  to 
words. 

"  'Tis  very,  very  kind  of  you,  Minnie,  to  be  sorry  I'm 
going,  but  you  must  remember  how  good  it  is  for  me.  I 
wish  5'our  father  was  rich  enough  to  send  you  to  school. 
But,  as  he  can't,  you  must  let  me  hand  on  such  things 
as  you'd  like  to  learn." 

"You've  taught  me  all  I  know  already,  Martin." 

"That's  nothing  yet.  But  I'll  try  and  teach  you  a 
lot  more  come  next  spring." 

' '  Do  you  get  any  holiday  at  Easter,  Martin  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"And  shall  I  write  you  a  little  letter  next  month  on 
your  birthday,  Martin?" 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  231 

*'Yes,  Minnie,  and  I  promise  to  answer  it.  But  don't 
send  no  present  or  anything  like  that.  If  you  think  to 
give  me  one " 

"Of  course,  Martin!" 

"And  very  kind  it  is.  But  keep  it  till  I  come  home. 
No  use  wasting  money  to  send  it  by  post.  I  shall  think 
just  as  much  of  it  when  I  come  home. ' ' 

"So  I  will  then,  if  you'd  rather  I  did." 

"Yes,  I  would.  It's  a  great  thing  to  be  saving.  I 
wish  my  father  wasn't  so  free-handed.  I  often  see  it 
worry  mother.  But  there's  one  thing.  He  gives  me  a 
lot,  and  I  tell  mother  on  the  quiet  that  it's  all  safe  in  my 
money-box,  so  that  makes  her  feel  happier,  because  she 
knows  I  don 't  waste  it. ' ' 

When  Minnie  had  gone,  Martin  thought  about  her,  and 
told  himself  that  she  was  good  and  kind  and  fond  of 
him.  He  felt  that  he  was  fond  of  her  too ;  and,  upon  re- 
turning home,  talked  about  her  to  his  mother  before 
Philip. 

Ouldsbroom  agreed,  and  praised  Minnie  heartily. 

"She's  a  dinky  maid,  and  if  'twasn't  for  all  the  psalm- 
singing  at  Stannon,  she'd  be  a  cheerful  one,"  he  said. 
"Uncle  Quinton's  all  right,  Martin;  but  don't  you  give 
too  much  heed  to  your  Aunt  Gertrude.  She's  a  bit  given 
to " 

His  wife  interrupted  him. 

"Now  we've  agreed  to  drop  that,  father.  And  as  to 
Minnie,  none  likes  her  better  than  I  do.  And  Martin  is 
right  to  like  her,  and  like  her  brothers  and  sisters  also, 
for  that  matter.  They  be  all  nice,  sweet  childer — save 
Samuel.  And  when  he  goes  off  next  year  to  the  training 
ship  at  Devonport,  he'll  soon  be  so  good  as  the  rest." 

"He's  the  best  of  the  boys  now,"  declared  Philip. 
"There's  a  pinch  of  the  devil  in  him,  as  there  ought  to  be 
in  every  nipper." 

That  night,  when  they  were  gone  to  bed,  her  husband 
began  again  to  talk  to  Unity  on  the  subject  of  Minnie 
Crymes. 

"  I  'm  a  great  stickler  for  boys  to  marry  early, ' '  he  said, 
"though  I  didn't  do  it  myself — luckily  for  me.    But  if 


232  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

Martin  has  a  liking  for  that  quiet  girl,  I  don't  think  we 
ought  to  stand  in  the  way  of  it. " 

' '  They  're  children.    You  do  run  on  so, ' ' 

"Children  now;  but  she'll  be  wife-old  afore  you  can 
look  round,  and  Martin  would  be  of  age  to  marry  in  three 
years. ' ' 

' '  Don 't  put  no  such  folly  into  his  head. ' ' 

"You  needn't  fear  that.  He's  got  no  use  for  my  sense 
— or  my  folly  either.  I  only  mean  that  'twould  be  a 
settling  thing  for  him,  come  presently,  to  be  properly 
tokened  to  her.  'Twould  keep  him  happy,  surely,  and  be 
the  light  of  his  life  if  he  loved  her. ' ' 

"The  light  of  his  life  will  never  be  a  woman.  To  be 
straight,  Phil,  I  don't  reckon  such  an  arrangement  would 
be  very  clever — even  if  Martin  thought  of  it.  Let  him 
look  around  and  see  life  and  learn  his  lessons.  He's  not 
the  girl-loving  sort,  and  a  good  thing  he  isn't.  He'll  see 
plenty  of  girls  higher  and  cleverer  than  Minnie  Crymes 
presently.  'Twould  be  a  silly  business  to  get  tied  up 
to  her  before  his  eyes  be  opened." 

"You  want  for  him  to  find  somebody  as  would  take 
him  away  from  Hartland  and  into  another  business  than 
farming !' ' 

"I  don't  want  to  find  anybody  or  think  of  anybody," 
she  answered.  "  'Tis  little  less  than  ridiculous  to  dream 
of  such  a  thing  for  a  child.  Why,  he  don't  know  the 
meaning  of  love  yet.    How  should  he  at  sixteen  ? ' ' 

"I'll  grant  that,"  answered  the  man.  "But  I've  a 
notion  that  come  he  did,  it  might  be  the  saving  of  him 
and  get  him  to  take  larger  views  all  round  and  be  a  little 
kinder  to  everybody. ' ' 

"He's  kind  enough.  But  'tis  one  of  them  rare  natures 
that  can't  understand  the  temptations  of  people,  because 
'tis  so  seldom  tempted  itself.  You  know  his  master  said, 
when  he  wrote  last  Christmas,  that  he  was  an  extraor- 
dinary good  boy." 

"I  know;  and  he  wrote  it  as  if  he  was  a  bit  disap- 
pointed in  him." 

"Nonsense,  Phil!" 

"Well,  I  do  wish  with  all  my  heart  he'd  fall  in  love 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  233 

with  Minnie  presently.  Such  a  thing  might  make  him 
larger-minded.  And  it  might  tempt  him  to  spend  a  little 
out  of  his  precious  money-box.  He  was  asking  me  yes- 
ternight if  he  'd  got  enough  to  put  out  at  interest.  Lord ! 
To  hear  him ! ' ' 

"That  was  Barbara's  fault.  He  has  ten  pound  in  the 
Post  Office  Savings  Bank,  and  she's  told  him  he  could 
get  better  interest  elsewhere.    And  that's  troubling  him." 

' '  I  wish  to  God  something  bigger  would  come  along  to 
trouble  him.    And  maybe  when  it  does " 

"Don't  be  fretful.  He's  going  on  all  right.  You'll 
be  proud  of  him  yet,  Phil." 

He  snorted,  and  expired  a  great  impatient  breath. 

"Well,  here's  another  holiday  ended  anyway,"  he  said. 

And  when  Martin  had  been  at  school  again  a  week,  his 
father  was  already  planning  the  first  hamper  and  decid- 
ing upon  what  day  he  might  go  to  Bovey.  Neither  did  he 
forget  Minnie  Crymes,  but  went  more  than  once  to  Stan- 
non  on  purpose  to  see  her.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  dis- 
covered her.  His  mind  already  wove  romances  round 
her.  He  pictured  her  his  daughter-in-law.  He  found 
out  that  Martin  was  her  hero,  and  he  listened  to  her  tell- 
ing stories  of  the  boy's  wisdom  and  greatness.  To  learn 
so  much  of  Martin  from  a  new  point  of  view  was  pleasing 
to  Philip.  He  shouted  Minnie's  praises  in  and  out  of 
season  to  many  ears.  He  gave  her  presents.  These  some- 
what embarrassed  her,  because  the  farmer  whispered 
with  them  that  she  was  not  to  mention  the  gifts  to  any- 
body. 

"Things  may  happen,"  he  said,  "and  I'd  be  very  well 
pleased  if  they  did,  Minnie.  And  I  w^ant  for  you  to 
know  that,  whatever  does  hap,  I'm  your  friend  and  on 
your  side — and  on  Martin's  side." 

He  prattled  on  and  hinted  of  possibilities;  but  he  was 
talking  over  the  girl's  head,  and  only  puzzled  her.  She 
looked  into  his  great  beaming  blue  eyes,  felt  his  hand 
grip  upon  hers,  and  wondered  what  he  meant.  But  she 
saw  that  he  was  happy  and  hopeful,  and  that  he  liked 
her  the  better  for  liking  Martin.  Therefore  she  felt 
vaguely   happy  too.     When    Martin's    birthday  came, 


234  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Philip  heard  of  the  arrangement  concerning  Minnie's 
present. 

' '  You  send  it, ' '  he  said ;  ' '  and  don 't  you  never  let  him 
dictate  to  you  in  matters  of  money.  He's  a  thought  too 
fond  of  money — to  say  it  lovingly ;  and  you  mustn  't  help 
him  to  hoard :  you  must  help  him  to  spend — if  you  want 
to  please  me." 

Minnie  understood ;  but  she  was  old  enough  to  feel 
that  the  master-wish  of  her  life  centred  in  Martin's 
pleasure,  not  his  father's.  She  kept  the  present  until 
Martin  returned,  because  he  had  told  her  to  do  so. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  YEAR  had  passed,  and  Gregory  Twigg,  grown  elderly 
now,  but  otherwise  unchanged,  gazed  from  the  door  of 
his  home  into  a  wet  and  stormy  gloaming  toward  the  end 
of  December.  Before  the  'Warren  House'  there  stretched 
wide  spaces  of  former  activity,  where  once  tin  miners 
had  worked;  and  more  than  this  dreary,  broken  region 
of  rotting  mounds,  dry  watercourses,  and  deserted  ma- 
chinery could  not  be  seen,  for  the  air  was  full  of  a  shout- 
ing storm-wind  and  of  driving  clouds  that  shut  out  all 
things  save  the  water-logged  foreground. 

Mr.  Twigg  looked  forth  without  depression.  He  was  a 
man  whose  heart  carried  him  high  above  such  minor 
tribulations  as  winter  and  harsh  weather. 

"  'And  the  fountains  of  the  deep  were  opened,'  "  he 
said  to  himself.  Then  he  was  about  to  return  to  his 
empty  bar  when  a  sound  of  wheels  and  a  galloping  horse 
arrested  him. 

Along  the  road  from  Moreton  they  came,  and  Mr. 
Twigg  delayed  a  moment  to  see  if  the  traveller  might 
stop. 

A  market  cart  appeared,  with  a  man  and  boy  in  it. 
The  vehicle  proceeded  swiftly,  and  in  two  minutes  Philip 
Ouldsbroom,  with  Martin  beside  him,  drew  up  and 
greeted  Mr.  Twigg. 

*' Never  better  pleased  to  see  you  and  your  shop,  Greg. 
We'm  storm-foundered  and  wet  as  fish;  but  I  ban't  going 
no  farther  without  a  drop  of  hot  Scotch,  and  Martin  must 
have  some  too." 

The  boy,  who  had  not  expected  Philip  to  stop,  spoke, 
under  his  breath,  for  fear  of  hurting  Mr.  Twigg. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  keep  going  right  home, 
father?    We're  very  wet." 

235 


236  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

''Stuff!  Get  down  and  take  the  hoss  round  the  lew 
side  of  thicky  shippon.  Then  come  in  the  bar.  But 
throw  the  tarpaulin  over  him.  Us  won 't  be  five  minutes. ' ' 

Martin  obeyed,  and  presently  joined  Mr.  Twigg  and 
Ouldsbroom.  The  latter  already  stood  by  a  big-  peat 
fire.  His  clothes  were  steaming,  and  upon  the  mantel- 
piece a  tumbler  of  hot  drink  also  steamed. 

"The  same  for  the  boy,  Greg.  You  needn't  roll  your 
eyes.  He's  a  teetotaler  most  times — ban't  you,  Martin? 
But  the  whole  Ancient  Order  of  Eechabites  would  want 
a  drink  if  they  was  catched  out  in  such  weather  as  this. ' ' 

' '  Eegarded  as  medicine,  or  as  the  means  to  keep  a  chill 
out  of  the  frame,  I've  never  heard  anything  against 
whisky,"  declared  Mr.  Twigg;  "and  I'm  the  last  man 
to  speak  against  it.  Such  as  me  respect  liquor,  same  as 
we  respect  all  good  things;  and  just  as  I  wouldn't  have 
a  bad  servant  on  my  staff,  so  I  wouldn't  have  bad  liquor 
in  my  cellar. ' ' 

He  helped  Martin,  and  the  boy  sipped  and  coughed. 

' '  Put  some  more  water,  please,  Mr.  Twigg, ' '  he  said. 

Gregory,  who  esteemed  Martin  very  highly,  was  about 
to  obey,  but  Philip  stopped  him. 

"Not  at  all.  Let  him  taste  it  and  'twill  brace  him 
and  make  a  man  of  him.  Down  with  it!  And  don't 
pull  faces,  else  Greg  here  will  be  cross." 

"Far  from  it,"  declared  Mr.  Twigg.  "  'Tis  the  last 
drink  for  boys,  speaking  at  large,  and  I'm  the  last  man 
to  give  it  to  boys — that  or  beer  either — in  a  general  way. ' ' 

"Give  me  another,  anyhow." 

Martin  fought  with  his  liquor,  and  waited,  cold  and 
uneasy,  while  his  father  drank.  He  liked  Mr,  Twigg, 
and  was  always  glad  to  see  him  and  listen  to  him.  Now, 
when  Philip  was  not  looking,  he  poured  the  greater  part 
of  his  glass  into  the  sawdust,  and  when  Ouldsbroom 
urged  him  to  take  more,  he  refused. 

The  innkeeper  supported  him,  and  the  men  argued, 
while  the  boy  went  out  to  look  to  the  horse. 

Philip  lighted  his  pipe  and  set  his  feet  to  the  fire. 

"  'Tis  worth  while  waiting  a  bit,"  he  said.  "I  reckon 
the  weather  will  break  presently.    And  what  d'you  think 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  237 

of  my  nipper,  Greg'?     He'll  be  pretty  near  so  clever  as 
you  yourself  at  the  gait  he 's  going. ' ' 

"You  are  blessed  in  a  very  proper  boy,"  said  Mr 
Twigg.  ''I've  watched  him  grow  in  wisdom  and  favour 
with  God  and  man,  neighbour.  He's  the  sort  to  leave 
the  world  better  than  he  found  it — as  I  shall  have  done 
myself  when  my  Maker  calls.  ]\Iy  wife  was  saying  to 
me  that,  little  though  I  see  him,  he's  got  my  mark  on 
him  already.  He's  serious-minded  and  a  seeker  after  the 
things  that  cannot  perish." 

' '  Don 't  you  talk  about  '  your  mark. '  Keep  your  mark 
for  your  sheep  and  ponies.  'Tis  his  brains  I  set  store  by. 
Sharp  as  a  needle  and  full  of  great  ideas.  Damned  if 
I  ban't  most  frightened  sometimes  when  he  comes  home 
for  the  holidays!  To  walk  him  round  be  kicklish  work. 
A  lot  of  silliness  too ;  but  that's  not  his  fault.  You  can't 
go  to  school  and  not  larn  a  bit  of  worthless  stuff  along 
with  the  rest.  I  tell  him  that  they  can't  teach  him  how 
to  farm  Dartymoor  down  to  the  in-country.  For  why? 
They  don 't  know.    But  'twill  come  right. ' ' 

He  drank,  and  talked,  and  drank  again. 

"Between  ourselves,  there's  a  fault,  however.  He's 
terrible  religious,  but  he's  near.  For  my  part  I  wish  he 
was  neither ;  because  you  religious  men  be  not  a  rap  more 
certain  in  your  dealings  than  the  likes  of  me — not  when 
it  comes  to  business;  but  nearness  is  a  vice,  and  if  you 
can  tell  me  how  to  stamp  that  out  of  him,  I  '11  thank  you. ' ' 

"We  must  be  just  before  we  are  generous,"  declared 
Mr.  Twigg.  "Still,  the  saying  is  often  an  excuse  for  a 
man  to  be  mean,  I  grant  you  that.  He  who  giveth  to 
the  poor  lendeth  to  the  Lord.  I'll  speak  to  Martin  and 
tell  him  that  the  saving  spirit  can  be  pushed  too  far. ' ' 

"He's  all  for  putting  money  out  at  interest,  and  such 
like." 

"Don't  prevent  it;  don't  prevent  it.  But  show  him 
where  the  best  interest  can  be  got.  However,  you  haven 't 
learnt  that  yourself,  so  you'd  better  leave  the  teaching 
to  me.  I  shouldn't  take  another,  Ouldsbroom — really  I 
should  not.    You  've  got  to  get  home. ' ' 

"Damn  it;  don't  I  know  that?    I  say,  don't  I  know 


238  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

that?  'Tis  because  I've  got  to  get  home  I  want  another 
— and  another  on  top,  very  like." 

Martin  returned. 

' '  The  dark  is  coming  down, ' '  he  said. 

''Let  it,"  answered  Philip.  "We  Imow  our  way,  I 
believe.  Twigg  here  wants  to  talk  to  you,  Martin.  He's 
marked  what  I  have  marked  in  you;  and  'tis  a  beastly 
fault — I  say  'tis  a  beastly  fault,  and  you're  got  to  stir 
yourself  and  do  better." 

The  boy  flushed  deeply  under  his  brown  skin  and 
looked  from  one  man  to  the  other. 

"Don't  be  troubled,"  said  Mr.  Twigg.  "  'Tis  a  fond- 
ness for  money,  my  poor  boy — not  a  fault  exactly,  if 
kept  in  the  bounds  of  reason  and  religion;  but  it  often 
grows  to  be  a  canker  in  the  human  heart,  till  we  lose 
sight  of  what  money  is  given  us  for  and  give  worship  to 
it  for  itself.  You  mustn't  get  fond  of  filthy  lucre,  Martin. 
Oh  no,  you  must  remember  that  we  are  stewards,  and 
that  a  tithe  is  not  ours  at  all.  You  mustn  't  rob  the  watch- 
ing, loving  Lord,  Martin.    You " 

"Stop!"  cried  Philip.  "If  you  be  going  to  talk  that 
twaddle,  Greg,  I'll  be  gone.  Give  me  another  of  the 
same  and  then  I'm  off.  You  put  it  all  wrong.  I  say 
you  put  it  all  wrong — wrong.  I  can  preach  better  than 
that — so  can  his  mother." 

Mr.  Twigg  was  hurt  and  startled. 

"If  you  really  think  so " 

"Gimme  my  drink;  and  you  can  pay,  Martin.  Out 
wi'  your  cash!  I  know  you've  always  got  a  store.  Be 
you  one  to  deny  your  father  a  drink?  I'd  break  your 
neck — I  say  I'd  break  your  neck  if  I  thought  so.  I'd 
break  any  man's  neck — I'd " 

The  distressed  boy  brought  forth  a  little  leathern 
purse,  and  his  father  made  him  count  the  contents. 

"Dammy,  he's  rolling  in  money — rolling  in  it!  Five 
and  twopence." 

"Two  shillings  are  mother's." 

"And  mine.  Be  us  to  have  separate  purses — us  three? 
Mine's  yours  and  yours  be  mine,  and  all's  mother's. 
And  now  us  had  better  get  on  the  road — I  say  us  had 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  239 

best  to  get  on  the  road,  else  they'll  think  we'm  drowned." 

Mr.  Twigg  helped  Ouldsbroom  into  his  trap  with  some 
difficulty,  and  he  Avas  glad  that  the  farmer  made  no  ob- 
jection when  the  boy  took  the  reins. 

Philip  began  to  sing  a  bawdy  song,  and  Martin  felt 
dull  anger  throbbing  in  him  as  he  drove  swiftly  forward. 
Great  indignation  burnt  in  his  young  heart.  To  him  this 
display  was  gratuitously  wicked.  He  resented  his  father 's 
drunkenness ;  he  resented  his  song ;  above  all,  he  resented 
his  indictment.  That  his  father  could  complain  of  him 
to  Mr.  Twigg  left  Martin  bruised  and  almost  bitter. 
There  was  none  whose  good  opinion  he  valued  more  than 
Gregory 's. 

A  tramp  approached  them  as  they  descended  the  hill 
into  Postbridge.  He  was  ragged,  lame,  and  dripping. 
The  man  stopped  as  the  cart  passed  him,  and  touched  his 
hat;  but  Martin  paid  no  heed.  Then  Ouldsbroom  bade 
him  draw  up. 

"Hullo,  my  brave  hero,  you'm  a  thought  wet  seem- 
ingly," he  said. 

The  man  began  a  sorrowful  tale,  and  Philip  cut  him 
short. 

"I  know — I  know — a  hell  of  a  world  if  you  draw  a 
blank.  Give  the  chap  that  half-crown  out  of  your  purse, 
Martin." 

"Father!" 

"Yes,  'father.'  Give  him  that  half-eroAvn,  and  be 
quick  about  it.  Who  be  the  like  of  us  to  keep  him  stand- 
ing in  the  mire  when  he  wants  to  get  on  his  way  to  food 
and  shelter  ?  I  say  who  be  the  like  of  us  ?  Be  quick,  or 
I  '11  fling  you  out  of  the  cart ! ' ' 

Martin  obeyed ;  the  wanderer  uttered  a  flood  of  thanks, 
and  the  boy  drove  on.  Out  of  his  eyes  dropped  fiery 
tears.  He  felt  sick  and  frightened.  He  did  not  speak 
again,  but  his  father  did. 

"That'll  larn  you  to  be  large-minded.  You  don't 
know  your  luck  yet.  You  don't  know  all  the  good  for- 
tune you're  born  to.  And  that  poor,  harmless  dirt  there 
' — just  so  good  as  you  or  me  once,  I  dare  say.  Just  so 
good  as  you  or  me.    Maybe  a  damned  sight  better.    And 


240  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

that  bit  of  money  will  be  the  turning-point  for  him  so 
like  as  not.  'Tis  time  your  mind  was  stretched  a  bit, 
Martin,  and  I  be  going  to  stretch  it — to  stretch  it,  I  say. ' ' 

That  night  the  boy  slept  little.  He  had  spoken  to  his 
mother  when  Philip  went  to  bed,  and  she  had  counselled 
patience,  and  foretold  that,  with  another  day,  he  would 
find  the  master  sane  and  contrite.  But  she  smarted  much 
in  secret,  and  looked  without  joy  upon  the  future  when 
Martin  must  return  home  to  leave  it  no  more. 

Meanwhile  the  boy  debated  many  things,  and,  before 
he  slept,  determined  that  he  would  speak  quietly  to  his 
father  when  morning  came,  and  try  if  he  might  influence 
him.  He  would  approach  under  the  a^gis  of  his  mother's 
name.  He  would  speak  as  one  who  loved  her  only  less 
than  Philip  himself  loved  her.  For  while  Martin  could 
not  understand  the  man's  failings,  he  had  sense  to  mark 
that  Philip's  affection  for  Unity  was  the  leading,  reign- 
ing principle  of  his  life.  To  her,  when  sober  and  self- 
contained,  he  was  always  loyal;  against  her  none  had 
ever  heard  him  say  an  unkindly  word.  He  might  grum- 
ble to  Barbara,  or  protest  to  his  wife  herself  at  some 
passing  failure  or  difference  of  opinion,  but  Unity  con- 
tinued his  abiding  beacon.  And  Martin  loiew  it.  He 
planned  his  little  remonstrance,  therefore,  and  fell  asleep 
rehearsing  the  form  that  it  should  take. 

He  met  Ouldsbroom  in  an  evil  hour  next  morning,  for 
the  man  was  suffering  from  his  intemperance  of  the  pre- 
vious day.  He  endured  physical  discomfort,  and  shame 
had  made  him  sulky. 

"May  I  speak  to  you,  father?"  asked  Martin  as  they 
met  in  the  farmyard ;  and  the  other  answered : 

"Yes;  if  you've  got  a  drop  more  sense  in  you  since 
yesterday. ' ' 

"I — I — you  see,  father,  it's  cruel  to  be  so  hard  on  me. 
I  know  how   'tis  about  money,  and  how  you've  got  to 

stint  to  send  me  to  school,  and  I Of  course  'tis  your 

money,  and  all  I've  saved  be  yours  too.  It  came  from 
you " 

"Ban't  I  always  saving  myself — or  trying  to  do  it? 
But  there's  a  sort  of  saving  that  loses  all.     You're  so 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  241 

beastly  mean,  and  I  won't  have  it.  I  ban't  going  to  give 
you  back  a  penny  of  your  money — not  a  penny.  And 
you  can  grumble  as  much  as  you  please." 

"  'Tisn't  that.  I'm  not  fond  of  the  money  for  itself, 
father.  Only  mother  is  always  saying  to  me  to  look 
ahead.  My  way  pleases  her,  and  I  save  for  her  sake,  and 
I  wish  that  you  too — for  her  sake,  father " 

Then  Philip  raged  as  no  man  had  seen  him  rage  before. 

* '  '  For  her  sake ' — '  for  her  sake ' !  God  damn  you, 
you  whelp !  D  'you  think  I  want  you  to  teach  me  my 
duty  to  your  mother?" 

He  lifted  his  fist  and  struck  Martin  a  heavy  blow  on 
the  head.  The  boy  fell  stunned,  and  while  he  lay  on  the 
ground,  with  his  hands  lifted  to  his  forehead,  Oulds- 
broom  cried  out  again.  His  words  tripped  each  other, 
and  he  roared. 

"Let  that  larn  you  sense  and  decency.  'For  her  sake' ! 
You  unnatural  dog !  When  you  can  love  like  I  can ;  when 
you  can  worship  your  mother  like  what  I  do — when 
you've  got  a  heart  in  your  cur's  body  that's  the  shadow 
of  your  father's  heart — then  come  and  tell  me  how  to 
treat  your  mother,  and  not  afore !  You  dare  to  preach 
to  me  again,  and  I'll  do  more  than  hit  you  down — I'll 
break  your  blasted  neck.  To  your  own  father — to  dare ! 
And  to  name  my  duty  to  her !  I  could  weep,  I  tell  you — 
ess  fay,  I  could  shed  bloody  tears  to  think  a  child  of 

mine Get  up  and  crawl  out  of  my  sight,  and  ax  your 

blessed  God  to  teach  you  your  duty  to  your  father — as 
have  done  his  duty  to  you,  faithful  and  loving  and  true, 
since  the  day  you  was  born.  Get  going,  and  don't  you 
see  me  no  more  to-day. ' ' 

The  boy  rose  and  slunk  off;  the  man,  panting  and 
raging,  strode  to  his  stable,  brought  out  his  horse,  and 
went  away  bare-backed  into  the  Moor. 

He  did  not  return  till  dusk,  and  by  that  time  the  evil 
of  yesterday's  drink  had  departed  from  him,  and  he 
mourned  to  think  what  he  had  done.  As  the  hours  passed 
a  great  grief  settled  upon  him  and  in  the  silent  places 
aloft  his  act  looked  awful  to  his  eyes.  He  perceived  that 
the  words  Martin  let  fall  with  such  deadly  force  were 

16 


242  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

meant  otherwise  than  he  had  understood  them.  He 
judged  that  his  boy  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the 
thing  he  had  uttered. 

Philip  returned  at  nightfall,  contrite  and  ready  to 
make  amends.  There  was  a  bruise  on  Martin's  forehead, 
and  the  lad  was  tearful  and  very  nervous  in  his  father's 
presence.  But  none  spoke  of  the  incident,  and  Unity 
did  not  allude  to  it  even  after  her  son  had  gone  to  bed. 
She  waited  for  Philip  to  do  so.  The  matter  was  on  his 
lips  in  a  moment. 

He  told  her  everything,  declared  that  he  had  wickedly 
misunderstood  Martin,  blamed  the  drink  of  the  previous 
day,  swore  that  the  fault  was  all  his  and  none  of  Martin 's 
making.  She  answered  that  the  boy  had  cared  nothing 
for  the  blow. 

"  'Twas  that  he  had  not  made  his  meaning  clear  what 
hurt  him  most,  not  your  fist,"  she  explained.  "He's 
terrible  fond  of  me  and — well,  least  said  soonest 
mended,  I  reckon.  The  sooner  he's  back  at  school  the 
better." 

She  sighed,  and  Philip  saw  that  she  had  been  much 
perturbed.  He  talked,  but  she  said  little;  then  he  went 
upstairs  to  see  Martin.  The  boy  was  speaking  aloud,  and 
did  not  hear  his  footfall.  At  the  door  of  the  little  room 
Philip  stood  a  moment  and  listened.  As  a  gift  handed 
down  to  him — perhaps  a  donation  of  heredity  from  his 
preaching  grandfather — Martin  had  an  instinct  to  offer 
oral  prayers  and,  when  moved,  he  often  did  so.  To-night 
he  called  upon  his  God  to  make  him  better  and  wiser — to 
forgive  him  for  wakening  his  father  into  such  anger,  and 
to  pardon  his  father  for  being  angry.  Philip  heard  and 
was  crushed  to  the  earth. 

He  went  in  to  Martin,  and  lifted  him  from  his  knees, 
put  his  arm  round  him,  gripped  his  hands,  and  begged 
humbly  for  forgiveness.  He  promised  amendment;  he 
showered  censure  upon  himself;  he  explained  to  Martin 
all  that  he  was  doing  and  planning  to  make  life  better 
and  happier  for  Unity.  He  made  Martin  forgive  him  and 
promise  to  understand  him  better.  He  vowed  that  now 
indeed  he  knew  what  Martin  was,  and  that  no  shadow 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  243 

could  ever  come  between  them  again.  The  boy,  tearful 
and  hopeful,  slept  presently;  but  it  was  long  before  his 
mother  or  her  husband  did  so. 

Philip's  excitement  would  not  abate.  He  talked  on 
for  hours  after  he  and  his  wife  were  in  bed.  He  ex- 
hibited an  absolute  trust  in  what  to-morrow  must  bring 
forth.  That  day  had  seen  wonderful  things,  he  declared. 
It  was  a  day  to  be  marked  with  a  \\hite  stone,  albeit  no 
morning  had  ever  dawned  darklier. 

"  Us  be  nearer  together  than  ever  before  since  the  snake 
bit  him,"  declared  Philip.  "  'Tis  as  if  a  shadow  was 
lifted  from  between  us.  Never,  never  again  will  there  be 
so  much  as  a  frown  separate  me  and  him.  I  see  what  a 
wonder  he  is,  and  I  see  that  he  can't  but  do  right  and 
reason  with  the  love  of  you  he's  gotten.  You  be  his 
guiding  star,  same  as  you  be  mine,  Unity ;  and  with  such 
a  light  upon  us,  how  can  us  be  anything  1)ut  close,  close 
father  and  son?  'Tis  impossible,  I  tell  you.  I  know 
him  inside  out  now,  and  he  knows  me  too — so  well  as  a 
child  can  know  a  man  and  the  depths  of  a  man.  Hence- 
forth there'll  be  such  a  friendship  grow  up  as  will  sur- 
prise you.  By  God,  there  will!  Give  and  take,  mind. 
We  shall  please  each  other.  Unity — we  shall  plan  how 
to  do  it.  'Tis  all  clear  as  light  between  us.  We've 
talked  it  all  out;  we've  forgived  each  other;  we'm  heart 
to  heart  a 'ready,  you  may  say — in  a  fashion  we  never 
was  till  now." 

She  listened. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Time  passed,  ana  each  holiday  of  Martin's  dawned  in 
hope  and  set  in  gloom.  As  for  the  boy,  his  observation 
quickened  much  and  he  progressed  steadily  in  under- 
standing. 

He  spoke  to  Tiger  two  days  before  he  returned  to 
school  after  his  summer  vacation. 

"You're  older  than  me,  and  you've  the  knack  to  do 
things  that  I  can't  do,"  he  said.  "I've  come  to  see  of 
late  what  a  deal  father  thinks  of  you,  Tiger;  and  quite 
right  too,  for  you  please  him  properly  and  you  think 
like  him." 

"He've  made  me,"  declared  Tiger;  "I  owe  him  and 
missis  everything,  and  I'd  do  anything  in  my  power 
for  'em." 

"I  know.  You  feel  very  properly  to  him,  and  you 
ought  to.  If  you  went  to  church  and  felt  thankful  for 
all  the  good  that's  happened  to  you,  Tiger,  you'd  feel 
properer  still.  As  it  is,  you  thank  father  for  all,  instead 
of  looking  beyond  father,  where  you  ought  to  look.  But 
the  thing  is  that  you  have  got  a  power  over  my  father. ' ' 

"Never,  Master  Martin!" 

"Yes,  you  have.  I'm  very  fond  of  my  poor  father,  and 
I'm  very  wishful  to  help  him.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
But  I  can't  get  at  him  like  you  can.  Don't  pretend 
'tisn't  so.  In  a  word,  I  want  you  to  do  everything  you 
know  to  keep  him — to  keep  him  steady,  Tiger.  I  don't 
say  'tis  in  your  power,  or  anybody's,  to  do  much  good. 
If  my  mother  can't  put  it  right,  'tis  very  sure  you  can't 

244 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  245 

and  I  can't;  but  he  does  turn  to  you  a  lot.  And  he'll 
take  from  you  what  he  wouldn't  from  anybody  living, 
for  I've  marked  it.  'Tis  your  rough-and-ready  way,  I 
suppose.  I  've  often  wished  you  were  a  bit  more  serious- 
minded,  Tiger,  for  you  might  have  worked  wonders  with 
my  father  if  you  had  been." 

"Not  me,"  declared  the  other.  "He'd  wince  away 
very  quick;  he'd  soon  have  no  use  for  me  if  I  was  that 
sort.  And  I  ban't  that  sort,  and  don't  want  for  to  be. 
He's  good  enough  for  me  and  good  enough  for  anybody. 
What's  cussing  and  swearing  against  the  things  he 
thinks  of?  What's  his  words  against  his  deeds?  I'd 
sooner  be  large-minded  like  him  than  pious-minded  like 
other  people." 

"Whether  or  no,  he  drinks  too  much,  and  each  time  I 
come  home  I  see  him  drink  more;  and  'tis  turning  my 
mother's  hair  grey.  He  forgets  his  age.  'Tis  very  bad 
for  him,  and  an  evil  example  to  the  men  and  you." 

Tiger  was  silent  for  a  moment.    Then  he  spoke. 

"I  know  you're  right  enough  there,"  he  said.  "And 
I  do  try,  so  far  as  I  dare,  and  I  will  again. ' ' 

"That's  what  I  ask,  and  I  tell  you  that  you  could  do 
a  bit  towards  it.  You're  said  to  be  eighteen  years  old 
now,  and  you're  strong  and  sensible.  I  beg  you.  Tiger, 
for  my  mother's  sake,  and  because  we've  been  friends 
ever  since  we  were  children,  to  do  what  you  can.  I've 
got  another  year  at  school,  and  then  I  shall  come  home 
for  good,  and  do  all  I  know  to  help  mother  with  father, 
and  pay  them  well  for  all  they've  done  for  me.  But  a 
year 's  a  long  time. ' ' 

"  I  '11  bear  in  mind  what  you  say, ' '  answered  the  elder. 

And  he  kept  his  word.  But  there  developed  from 
this  attention  a  difficulty  that  neither  of  the  boys  had 
guessed  at,  and  Ouldsbroom's  wife  was  the  first  to  per- 
ceive it.  A  glimmering  dawn  of  jealousy  against  Tiger 
had  faded  for  a  time,  and  now  it  revived  and  waned  no 
more.  After  the  promise  to  Martin,  the  older  lad  pur- 
sued a  part  agreeable  enough  to  himself  and  sought  his 
master  more  than  formerly.  He  had  always  entertained 
a  profound  admiration  for  Philip,  and  as  Tiger  entered 


240  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

into  manhood  this  regard  increased  with  his  own  waxing 
understanding.  He  was  built  on  a  mental  pattern  to  see 
little  more  than  the  goodness  of  his  master.  He  liked  the 
genial  and  reckless  natui-e  of  him ;  he  desired  to  be  such 
another,  and  imitated  Philip  as  much  as  possible.  And 
Ouldsbroom  gradually  grew  to  find  Tiger  a  very  vital 
feature  in  his  life.  The  lad  had  more  common  sense  than 
the  man;  he  was  able  to  retain  Martin's  goodwill;  he  had 
often  succeeded  in  bringing  Philip  back  into  friendship 
with  Martin  after  a  quarrel.  He  had  steered  him  out  of 
strife  in  other  directions.  All  this  Unity  perceived  and 
welcomed ;  but  she  also  awoke  to  the  fact  that  Tiger  was 
no  longer  a  boy;  and  she  suspected  that  his  control 
threatened  to  become  supreme  with  her  husband.  That 
the  influence  worked  for  good  and  peace  she  could  not 
deny ;  its  force  alone  she  began  to  fear.  More  than  once, 
in  a  passion,  Philip  had  openly  wished  that  Tiger  and  not 
Martin  was  his  son.  After  such  explosions  he  did  indeed 
lament  and  redouble  his  affection  for  Unity's  child;  but 
she  knew  well  enough  that  nature  bent  Ouldsbroom  more 
and  more  towards  Tiger,  and  she  asked  herself  what 
might  come  of  this  as  the  man  grew  weaker  and  the 
youth  more  strong. 

There  was  none  save  Barbara  Hext  to  whom  she  cared 
to  speak  upon  this  subject,  and  even  there  she  hesitated, 
because  she  guessed  that  the  postmistress  would  laugh 
at  her.  Philip's  farm  was  not  entailed.  He  might  do 
what  he  pleased  with  it.  She  felt  no  difficulty  in  pictur- 
ing him  making  a  new  will  and  handing  everything  to 
Tiger.  So  mad  a  step  he  might  regret  and  possibly  re- 
voke when  effected;  but  the  likelihood  of  it  made  her 
uneasy;  she  felt  that  Tiger's  influence  for  good  upon  her 
husband  was  too  dearly  purchased  by  the  increasing 
trust  and  amity  that  Ouldsbroom  displayed  towards  him. 

Unity  spoke  to  none ;  but  at  last  there  came  the  needed 
inspiration,  and  she  decided  to  appeal  to  Tiger  directly. 
Well  she  knew  him,  and  well  she  knew  that  he  was  loyal 
and  honest.  He  had  never  dreamed  of  the  thoughts  in 
her  mind;  he  had  never  asked  or  hoped  for  anything 
better  than  presently  to  work  for  Martin  and  rise  to  be 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  247 

his  right  hand.  But  Unity  knew  how  ambition  ripens 
with  age;  she  guessed  at  the  conversations  held  between 
man  and  boy;  she  felt  positive  that  the  time  had  come 
for  Tiger  to  leave  Hartland  while  yet  his  mind  was  clean 
and  unsullied  by  vain  hopes  and  hungerings.  She  judged 
him  by  herself,  and  remembered  what,  at  his  age,  had 
served  most  to  influence  her  thoughts  and  actions.  The 
difificulty  of  getting  him  away  would  be  considerable ;  but 
she  did  not  shirk  it.  She  understood  him  and  guessed 
that  an  appeal  to  his  nature  would  cut  the  knot.  He 
must  go  of  his  own  free  will.  He  must  desire  to  go  and 
insist  upon  going,  no  matter  how  hardly  Philip  might 
try  to  keep  him.  She  decided  to  be  exceeding  frank 
with  Tiger.  He  was  the  heart  of  frankness  himself  and 
might  best  be  influenced  in  that  spirit. 

Unity  matured  her  scheme  and  weighed  her  words 
before  uttering  them.  Then  there  happened  an  incident 
that  postponed  her  intention;  for  trouble  and  a  threat 
of  great  loss  fell  upon  Philip,  and  she  felt  that  this  was 
no  moment  to  bring  further  care  upon  him.  She  was 
shaken  in  another  particular  also.  Martin  had  told  her 
of  his  speech  with  Tiger  and  of  the  boon  that  he  had 
begged.  She  watched,  therefore,  and  was  constrained  to 
admit  chat  Tiger  had  come  between  Philip  and  the  bottle 
on  more  than  one  occasion.  He  had  a  power  that  now 
Unity  herself  began  to  lack.  Her  old  authority  over 
Philip  was  diminished,  but  she  could  not  tell  how  or  by 
what  means  it  had  decreased.  And  the  lost  credit  prom- 
ised to  belong  to  Tiger  presently.  She  was  jealous  at 
this;  she  even  found  it  in  her  heart  secretly  to  rejoice 
when  Tiger  failed,  as  he  often  failed.  Her  pride  resented 
it  that  Tiger  should  possess  a  power  of  control  lacking 
in  her  son ;  yet,  while  she  felt  angered  in  thought,  reason 
told  her  plainly  enough  that  the  thing  was  inevitable  if 
not  desirable. 

She  was  about  to  speak  to  Tiger  when  Barbara  Hext 
fell  ill  and  postponed  her  action. 

The  postmistress  had  for  some  time  been  failing,  and 
now  she  suffered  a  stroke  and  came  into  the  shadow  of 
death.     She  couJd  speak  freely,  and  her  mind  was  not 


248  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

obscured.  She  desired  to  see  Philip  on  the  morning  after 
her  attack,  and  he  hastened  to  her.  They  were  left  alone 
together,  and  he  sat  beside  her  bed. 

"The  end,  Phil,"  she  declared.  "I'm  well  past  three- 
score and  ten,  remember.  Seventy-five  this  year,  and 
not  sorry  to  go." 

"Don't  yon  talk  of  it.  'Tis  just  a  warning  that  you 
musn't  work  so  hard — no  more  than  that." 

"I'm  not  sorry  to  go,  I  tell  you.  And  I  want  for  you 
to  see  me  under  ground.  I  thought  to  be  taken  across  the 
road  long  ago,  and  I've  chosen  my  place.  There  must 
be  no  nonsense  talked  over  me,  Philip.  I  must  be  buried 
as  I  have  lived — free.  If  there's  anything  after,  then  I 
shall  have  my  share  in  it.  If  I'm  wrong  in  what  I  be- 
lieve, I  shall  be  glad.  But  as  it  is  with  me,  I  go  to  a 
dreamless  sleep  and  can't  believe  in  any  awakening.  I 
want  you  to  read  a  bit  of  Job  beside  the  grave — nothing 
else  at  all." 

"Yes,  I  will,  then.  But  'tis  bad  for  you  to  run  on 
so.  Time  enough.  I  don 't  believe  you  be  at  your  latter 
end,  Barbara.  You  don't  look  like  it.  Your  voice  rings 
so  clear  as  a  bell." 

She  shook  her  head. 

* '  It  can 't  be  long,  even  if  I  get  over  this.  'Tis  a  stroke, 
Philip.  We  tough  old  people  that  Death  can't  sweep 
away  at  a  breath,  he  tackles  different.  He  gets  the  thin 
end  of  the  wedge  in,  like  a  woodman.  Then  'tis  all  up 
with  us,  and  he  only  waits  his  own  good  time  to  drive  it 
home  and  bring  us  down.  I  'm  sorry  to  leave  you,  Phil. 
I'm  very,  very  fond  of  you,  and  I  know  what  you  are 
better  than  any  living  creature." 

"You  can't  go — you  shan't  go!  I  couldn't  get  on 
without  you,  Barbara.  Your  sense  be  a  big  part  of  life 
to  me.    None  ever  had  such  understanding — none. ' ' 

They  talked,  and  she  told  him  that  she  had  left  twenty 
pounds  to  Martin  and  twenty  pounds  to  Tiger.  That 
she  had  willed  a  hundred  pounds  to  Philip  himself,  she 
did  not  mention. 

"My  little  estate  goes  to  my  nephew  at  Plymouth," 
she  said.     "I  like  him,  for  he's  a  freethinker  and  an 


THE    THIEF    OP   VIRTUE  249 

honest  man  and  a  good  one.  He  has  five  children  and  a 
sick  wife.  'Twill  be  light  on  their  darkness.  He's  a 
watchmaker,  and  well  thought  upon  and  badly  of!:." 

Philip  rose  presently  to  go;  but  not  before  he  had 
promised  to  come  and  read  with  her  on  the  following  day. 

*'Kiss  me,  Phil,"  she  said.  "And  to-morrow — and 
to-morrow  us '11  go  bit  by  bit  through  Job,  and  fasten 
on  such  few  words  as  I  could  wish  spoken  to  them  that 
may  stand  by  my  grave." 

He  promised  to  obey ;  he  then  departed  from  her  much 
cast  down.  For  the  first  time  he  pictured  life  without 
Barbara  and  found  it  very  empty.  He  had  lived  so  near 
her  and  seen  so  much  of  her  that  he  had  not  perceived 
her  approaching  end.  He  forgot  her  age,  for  age  sat 
lightly  upon  himself.  He  felt  surprise  now  to  learn  that 
she  was  nearly  seventy-five.  He  himself  approached 
close  to  sixty,  but  nothing  spoke  of  it  to  him.  He  was 
strong  and  hale  as  ever.  Only  his  hair  had  grown  thinner 
and  whiter.  On  his  good  days,  the  genial  life  of  him 
still  bubbled  over,  and  generosity  and  sympathy  con- 
tinued to  be  the  notes  of  his  character. 

He  returned  home  sorrowful,  and  walked  thrice  again 
to  the  valley  that  he  might  learn  how  Barbara  fared. 
The  last  report  was  good,  and  he  went  back  to  Hartland 
more  cheerful.  That  night  he  read  aloud  from  Job,  and 
when  his  throat  grew  husky,  he  made  Tiger  continue  to 
do  so. 

"I'm  to  speak  from  it  over  her  grave,"  he  explained 
to  Unity  after  they  had  retired.  "She's  not  going  to 
have  no  parson  say  anything.  She's  going  to  be  buried 
as  she's  lived — free.  But  I  hope  to  God  the  time  is  far 
ways  off  yet.  She's  got  all  her  wits,  and  that's  saying 
a  lot.  She's  gived  our  Martin  twenty  pound — bless  her 
kind  heart,  and  she's  gived  Tiger  twenty  too." 

His  wife  guessed  that  this  might  be  an  opportunity 
to  approach  Tiger,  and  even  considered  whether  she 
should  now  discuss  the  possibility  of  his  departure  with 
Philip  himself.  But  he  spoke  on  while  she  debated,  and 
soon  she  learned  that  the  shadowed  death  of  his  friend 
had  sorely  troubled  him.    She  had  never  seen  Philip  so 


250  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

despairing,  so  stricken;  and  before  this  grief  she  per- 
ceived, for  the  first  time,  all  that  Barbara  Hext  had  been 
to  him. 

She  determined  to  delay  any  step  in  the  matter  of 
Tiger  until  after  the  threatened  misfortune. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Philip  read  Job  to  the  sick  woman,  and  she  bade  him 
mark  this  verse  and  that.  The  exercise  gave  her  con- 
siderable satisfaction  and  occupied  some  hours  on  several 
mornings.  Then,  little  by  little,  the  evil  symptoms  were 
modified  and  a  new  lease  of  life  was  gi'anted  to  Miss 
Hext. 

Its  duration  promised  to  be  precarious,  but  for  the 
time  she  enjoyed  comfort  and  some  return  of  strength. 
Her  activity  was  much  curtailed  henceforth,  yet  as  soon 
as  possible  she  came  again  to  the  shop,  sat  in  the  midst, 
and  directed  the  two  girls  who  now  worked  for  her,  A 
young  man  from  Plymouth  was  in  temporary  control 
of  the  post-office. 

Philip  rejoiced  extravagantly  before  this  recovery,  and 
his  exultation  extended  to  many  others.  None  but  was 
glad  to  know  that  a  leading  figure  in  the  hamlet,  and 
one  well  liked  by  most  of  her  neighbours,  might  still 
for  an  uncertain  length  of  days  be  spared. 

There  met  by  chance  a  gathering  in  the  shop  near 
Christmas,  and  the  people  were  happy  to  see  that  good 
store  of  the  season 's  luxuries  adorned  IBarbara  's  counters 
and  decorated  her  windows  as  of  old. 

Peter  Culme,  the  hunchback,  was  there,  and  Mr.  Twigg 
of  the  'Warren  House'  had  called.  Mary  French,  from 
Teign  Head,  came  for  Christmas  shopping,  and  there 
entered  also  Philip  Ouldsbroom,  and  Tiger  with  a  basket 
in  each  hand.  Miss  Hext  sat  in  a  comfortable  chair  be- 
hind the  counter  and  directed  her  two  assistants.  She 
trembled  often  to  leap  up  and  serve  herself ;  but  the  time 
for  that  was  over.  At  best  she  needed  now  two  sticks  to 
guide  her  going, 

251 


252  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

The  egregious  Gregory  was  in  a  large  and  retrospective 
mood.  He  condescended  to  include  Miss  Hext  in  the 
flight  as  he  ranged  back  upon  his  brilliant  past. 

"Neighbour  Culme  here  and  a  few  others  must  listen 
and  learn  from  such  as  us,"  he  began.  "I  may  say  that 
I  have  walked  in  a  sphere  not  to  have  been  expected 
from  my  beginnings.  They  were  as  humble,  or  nearly 
so,  as  Tiger 's  here.  But  there  was  that  in  me  that  soared 
from  the  womb.  I  was  never  even  a  common  suckling 
child.  The  Light  came  to  me  at  a  very  tender  age.  And 
understanding  men  soon  saw  my  nature  and  were  proud 
to  lend  a  hand.  You  and  me.  Miss  Hext,  have  mixed 
in  a  better  class  of  society,  and  much  has  been  naturally 
revealed  to  us  that  is  hid  from  Postbridge.  Religion  is 
a  great  bond  and  also  a  great  uplifter.  I  had  it  so  abun- 
dantly that  it  couldn't  be  hid,  and  my  betters — so  to 
call  them — soon  found  out  my  nature.  Hands  were 
stretched  out  to  me  on  every  side.  'Twas  the  case  of 
the  humble  being  called  to  the  place  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  feast.  It  often  happened,  and  I  can  say  without 
boasting,  that  'twas  an  everyday  thing  for  me  to  eat  at 
the  tables  of  the  rich. ' ' 

"Their  kitchen  tables — yes,"  said  Tiger.  "So  have  I." 
Philip  laughed,  and  Gregory  was  much  annoyed. 

"Is  that  your  manners?"  he  asked  sharply.  "But 
there — you  are  what  you  are.  If  a  man's  godless,  'tis 
ten  to  one  but  he's  also  without  any  veneration.  But 
don't  you  speak  again,  please,  when  I'm  in  company.  I 
ask  your  master  to  forbid  it.  Respect  I  have  from  my  own 
generation,  and  so  much  the  more  should  I  command 
it  from  the  next.  If  you  took  upon  you  a  decent  name, 
and  went  to  chapel,  or,  failing  that,  the  Establishment, 
you  might  hope  to  cut  a  properer  figure  in  the  world 
than  ever  you  will  cut,  you  indecent  boy. ' ' 

"A  boy  no  more,"  declared  Philip.  "He's  a  man — 
eighteen-year-old,  and  big  and  strong  at  that.  He's  my 
bringing  up,  ban't  you,  Tiger?  and  I'm  proud  of 
him." 

' '  Then  teach  him  modesty  to  his  superiors, ' '  answered 
the  innkeeper.    "The  young  ought  to  be  on  their  knees 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  253 

before  the  face  of  such  as  me  or  Miss  Hext  here.  Fun  I 
allow  in  its  proper  place,  but  not  familiarity.  The  new 
generation  is  too  familiar,  and  it 's  all  summed  up  in  that. 
We,  as  have  the  solemn  awfulness  of  age  upon  us,  ought 
to  be  treated  according.  But  grey  hair's  a  laughing-stock 
noM',  and  a  bald  head's  a  joke." 

"Things  must  be  as  they  must,"  said  Barbara.  "We 
can  glimpse  what's  coming,  but  we  shall  be  taken  away 
from  it.  I  don't  say  'the  evil  to  come,'  but  the  changes 
to  come.    Good  changes,  for  certain." 

"  'Twill  be  evil,"  declared  Mr.  Twigg.  "We're  drift- 
ing to  Antichrist  faster  and  faster.  We've  got  to  go 
through  it,  and  just  the  blessed  few  will  weather  the 
storm  and  keep  their  lamps  burning  to  help  light  the 
battered  world  again  after  'tis  over.  But  he's  got  to 
come  first  and  work  his  terrible  will ;  and  we  can 't  hope 
for  any  lasting  improvement  till  he's  been  and  gone. 
That's  how  I  read  Scripture,  and  I've  not  heard  that 
anybody  reads  it  truer." 

' '  Us  shall  be  away  afore  he  comes, ' '  said  Peter.  * '  'Tis 
something,  no  doubt,  to  have  escaped  him;  but  such  as 
have  childer  and  grandchildren  ought  to  be  careful  to 
warn  'em." 

"Tell  these  old  men  they  be  damned  fools,  Barbara." 
said  Philip. 

She  laughed. 

"  'Tis  what  they  are  nourished  on,"  she  said.  "If 
you  eat  child's  meat,  you'll  be  childish.  You  chaps — you 
that  take  a  big  size  in  boots  and  a  terrible  small  one  in 
hats — are  prone  to  think  your  view 's  the  only  view.  You 
cling  to  the  old  ship,  and  fancy  you  can  set  the  world 
right  from  her  sinking  deck.  But  the  world's  looking 
the  other  way.  It  can't  be  saved  by  you.  'Tis  you  that 
will  have  to  be  saved  by  it,  if  you  live  long  enough.  The 
old  things  are  worn  out — full  of  holes — beyond  any  more 
patching.  They've  tinkered  and  mended  till  there's 
nought  of  Christian  Gospel  teaching  left.  What  you've 
got  now  is  only  the  shadow  of  it.  You  may  wade  chin- 
deep  in  words,  Gregory ;  but  where 's  the  man  or  woman 
can  build  their  deeds  on  the  Bible  now  ?    'Tis  impossible, 


254  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

because  the  world's  always  moving,  and  it's  moved  on 
beyond. ' ' 

' '  Pray  God  'tis  moving  in  a  circle,  then,  and  will  com^ 
back  again,"  said  Culme. 

"There's  the  Spirit  to  quicken,  if  the  Letter  is  dead, 
Miss  Hext, ' '  suggested  the  young  man  who  controlled  the 
post-office.  He  was  very  earnest  and  of  a  religious  mind. 

"You  and  the  likes  of  you  miss  the  Spirit,"  she 
answered.  "  'Tis  because  the  Spirit  is  missed  that  the 
thing  has  died." 

"We  show  different,"  declared  Gregory.  "We  Little 
Baptists  shine  with  the  Spirit;  and  if  all  men  don't  see 
our  good  works  and  glorify  our  Father  w^hich  is  in 
Heaven,  then  that's  because  they  are  blind,  not  because 
we  are  wrong." 

"And  what  do  the  world  want  now.  Miss  Hext?" 
asked  Tiger. 

"It  wants  to  be  more  brave,"  she  answered.  "It 
wants  to  face  change  and  not  stick  its  head  into  the  past, 
like  an  ostrich  thrusting  its  beak  in  the  sand.  There's 
a  number  of  things  outlived,  and  'tis  no  good  that  we 
pretend  they  are  alive  any  more,  because  they're  not. 
We  must  give  heed  to  them  that  tell  us  so;  not  to  them 
Avho  pretend  different.  We're  too  weak  and  too  soft. 
We  run  in  herds,  and  think  in  herds,  and  crowd  together 
to  keep  each  other's  courage  up.  I'd  say  to  a  young 
man,  'Branch  out;  get  away  from  all  this  dead  stuff; 
break  loose,  and  look  before  you — not  behind. '  'Tis  like 
Lot's  wife — them  as  be  always  staring  back  be  turned 
into  stone." 

"  'Twould  be  a  terrible  world  if  that  happed,"  said 
Mr.  Twigg.  "If  the  young  shouldn't  look  back  to  the 
tried  wisdom  of  the  old,  where  should  they  look  ? ' ' 

"To  the  untried  wisdom  of  the  new,"  she  answered. 
"The  old  goodness  is  played  out,  I  tell  you.  It's  served 
its  turn,  and  now  we  want  a  new  goodness. ' ' 

The  post-office  clerk  asked  where  higher  goodness 
could  be  found  than  in  the  Bible. 

"To  seek  for  it  is  seeking  better  bread  than  can  be 
made  of  wheat,"  he  said. 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  255 

"And  why  not  seek?"  she  asked.  "Is  wheat  the  last 
word  about  corn?  Everything's  moving;  and  you  good, 
Bible-believing  people — I  don't  trust  you — I  don't  be- 
lieve in  you.    You  pretend — you  fool  yourselves. 

That  a  woman  could  say  such  things  made  Mr.  Culme 
suspect  possession. 

"She've  got  an  evil  spirit  crept  in/'  he  whispered  to 
Philip. 

' '  Have  she,  Peter  ?  Then  I  wish  to  God  'twould  creep 
into  a  few  more  of  us,"  answered  the  farmer.  There- 
upon he  laughed,  and  told  Miss  Hext  what  the  hunch- 
back feared  for  her. 

"Evil  or  good,  'tis  the  spirit  of  the  hour,"  she 
answered.  "  'Twill  cure  a  lot  of  sickly  thinking  when 
you  start  to  serve  man  instead  of  God.  Maybe  our  whole 
duty  to  the  one  is  our  whole  duty  to  the  other,  if  we  could 
see  it." 

Martin  Ouldsbroom  entered  at  this  moment,  and  most 
of  the  people  in  the  shop  left  it.  The  boy  had  returned 
for  his  holidays  three  days  before.  Now  he  shook  hands 
with  Barbara  and  declared  how  very  glad  he  was  that 
she  had  recovered. 

"Thank  you,  Martin,"  she  answered.  "What  a  man 
you  grow — not  much  more  schooling  for  you  till  you  go 
into  life's  school  now!" 

They  talked,  and  Martin  bought  a  Christmas  present 
for  his  mother.  The  action  inspired  Ouldsbroom;  he 
bade  Tiger  and  Martin  depart  that  he  might  make 
various  secret  purchases. 

After  they  had  gone,  Philip  found  himself  alone  with 
Barbara.  They  left  the  shop,  and  he  helped  her  into 
her  little  room  behind  it.    Then  he  spoke  to  her. 

' '  I  want  for  my  son  to  smoke,  but  be  beggared  if  he  '11 
larn,"  he  said.  "  'Tis  the  hardest  thing  that's  happened 
to  me,  for  I've  reached  a  point  now  when  I  know  that 
whatever  I  hit  upon  as  a  happy  thought  will  strike  him 
just  contrariwise.  Cold — cold — and  colder  to  me  every 
time  he  comes  home.  Never  wrong,  that  boy — never 
wrong !  But  his  cold  goodness  have  bred  hot  wickedness  in 
me.    I  thought  back-along  that  I'd  larned  the  secret  of 


256  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

him,  and  I  could  have  shouted  for  joy.  Things  promisad 
to  go  better ;  but  they  didn  't.  He 's  come  back  now  that 
pushing  and  that  full  of  ideas.  Not  an  uncivil  word, 
mind  you.  No  chance  for  a  bit  of  a  flare  up  and  friends 
again — I  could  endure  that.  But  just  silence  when  he 
ain't  of  my  opinion — and  that's  most  times." 

'  *  How  does  Tiger  do  with  him  ? ' ' 

"They'm  like  starlings — always  quarrelling,  though 
they  will  keep  together.  He  raps  out  at  Tiger  and  Tiger 
raps  out  at  him.  'Tis  fire  and  water,  and  if  I  come  along 
and  take  Tiger's  part,  as  happens  now  and  again,  then 
Martin,  instead  of  keeping  up  his  end  of  the  stick,  shuts 
down  and  says  no  more. ' ' 

"  'Tis  out  of  respect  for  you." 

'*I  don't  know.  Silence  be  a  sort  of  disrespect,  I 
think.  Ban't  I  worth  arguing  with?  Be  my  wide  know- 
ledge of  life  and  experience  nothing?  Can't  he  lam 
from  me?  Be  I  a  man  behind  the  times?  'Tis  the  boy 
that's  behind  the  times,  with  his  stiff-starched  larning. " 

She  considered. 

"I  know  the  sort,  Phil.  You  must  take  him  as  he  is, 
and  not  fret.  You  and  me  are  simpler — commoner.  I  'm 
not  a  stickler  for  the  grand  virtues.  They've  got  no 
friends — only  admirers.  And  oft  enough  even  the  ad- 
mirers keep  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks." 

''Such  virtue  stinks,"  said  the  man  hotly.  "I  hate 
it.  'Tis  unnatural.  He's  a  mountebank  of  virtue — a 
thief  of  virtue — stole  it  without  paying  for  it — about  so 
virtuous  really  as  my  grandfather's  clock — ticks  good 
time  and  nothing  else.  That 's  not  virtue ;  'tis  machinery, 
and  he  ban't  no  more  inclined  towards  anything  but  this 
parched-up,  frozen,  heart-breaking  goodness  than  a 
wheel's  inclined  to  do  anything  but  turn  round  and 
round. ' ' 

"His  nature  leads  him  mostly  to  right.  He  can't 
help  it.    He's  a  creature  of  good  habits,"  she  said. 

"If  you  can't  do  wrong,  you  don't  know  what  it  is 
to  do  right,"  he  answered.  "I  feel  this — it's  been  seeth- 
ing in  my  brain  for  years  and  it's  showed  me  wonderful 
things.     'Tisn't  goodness,  I  tell  you,  to  be  like  him — ^no 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  257 

more  goodness  than  an  acorn's  good  to  grow  into  an  oak. 
Goodness  have  got  to  be  fought  for,  not  filched.  He's 
never  paid  the  price.  He's  made  good.  He's  born  good. 
And  they  talk  of  original  sin !  Where  the  hell  have  his 
got  to,  I  should  like  to  know?  All  gone  into  love  of 
money — the  only  thing  I  couldn't  forgive.  And  my  son 
— my  blood  in  his  veins — me,  a  sinful,  loving,  breathing, 
feeling  human  man — have  got  this  horrid  lump  of  per- 
fection. That's  the  damned  sickening  thing.  How  can 
I  tear  it  out  of  him  ?  How  can  I  make  him  like  Tiger  and 
like  me?  'Tisn't  his  mother  neither.  I'd  forgive  it  all  if 
it  was.  She 's  a  wonder,  but  she 's  a  woman  too — a  woman 
with  hopes  and  fears  and  a  heart,  and  a  temper  also,  for 
that  matter.  Should  I  have  married  a  graven  image? 
She  can  do  wrong  so  well  as  right.  She  knows  how  to 
suffer  and  how  to  weep.  We  have  words,  and  we  own 
up  our  sins  and  love  again.  We're  one  in  pinching  and 
scraping  to  keep  him  learning  anyway.  But  Martin " 

"Be  patient  with  him.  He's  himself,  and  presently, 
when  life  begins  to  pound  him,  he'll  be  softer  and  more 
understanding.  There's  nothing  like  the  fret  and  tear 
of  living.  He's  got  a  fine,  lofty  nature,  and  life  will 
give  it  an  edge.  I  believe  in  him.  If  you  can  only  keep 
him  from  being  pious — try  to  do  that,  Phil.  It's  death — 
death  and  frost-bite  and  ruin. ' ' 

"Don't  I  know  it?    But  how?" 

"I'm  hopeful  of  the  world,  I  tell  you.  Let  him  see 
sorrow — better  still,  let  him  feel  it.  'Tis  the  only  thing 
that  ripens  some  natures.  'Tis  the  only  thing  that 
ripened  mine."  < 

' '  I  want  for  him  to  marry  in  a  year  or  two.  I  'm  hope- 
ful that  will  be  a  good,  useful  eye-opener  to  him.  He's 
got  blood  in  him  somewhere ;  he  must  have — my  son." 

"Be  sure  'tis  so.  A  wife  of  the  right  pattern  might 
do  much." 

"Yes,  she  might.  But  he'll  choose  the  pattern,  not 
me.  I  know  the  girl  for  that  matter,  and  I've  nought 
to  say  but  good  of  her,  save  that  she  thinks  too  well  of 
him  and  would  spoil  his  shadow  if  it  could  be  done.  But 
Unity  and  me  ban't  of  a  mind  there." 

'  17 


258  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"Be  hopeful — very  hopeful,"  she  said.  "After  all, 
such  a  son  is  better  than  a  bad  lot — a  rip  that  wo\jld  do 
nothing  but  wrong  and  end  by  breaking  his  mother's 
heart,  perhaps.    He's  human  and  he's  very  young." 

Philip  nodded. 

' '  I  feed  on  hope,  you  might  say.  And  I  look  back  now 
and  again.     See  here." 

He  produced  a  pocket-book  and  took  an  old  letter 
from  it. 

"  'Twas  what  he  wrote  after  the  snake  stung  him.  I 
swore  I'd  never  part  from  it,  and  I  never  shall.  Some- 
how I  feel  the  little  chap  that  wrote  that  letter  must  be 
my  son  all  right." 

They  talked  awhile  longer,  and  she  cheered  him,  so 
that  he  made  great  purchases  and  went  home  in  good 
spirits. 

Christmas  was  the  prime  event  of  the  year  to  Philip, 
and  he  planned  mighty  things  on  this  occasion.  His 
wife,  as  usual,  had  much  ado  to  modify  his  schemes  be- 
fore the  time  of  their  fulfilment  came. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  interest  of  life  shifts  so  slowly  that  those  still  in  the 
heat  and  turmoil  thereof  perceive  not  when  they  begin 
to  drift  from  the  central  position.  But  surely,  steadily, 
as  the  adult  become  old  and  the  young  take  up  the  burden, 
the  focus  centres  on  new  faces;  those  who  were  children 
enter  the  midst  of  it  as  men ;  while  they  who  formerly 
figured  there  pass  into  the  blur  beyond  and  are  pro- 
tagonists of  the  play  no  more.  They  guess  it  not  them- 
selves, and  suppose  that  still  the  throb  and  pulse  of  life 
beats  at  its  highest  where  they  sit  by  the  fire,  or  in  the 
sun;  but  others  know  difi:'erently.  The  most  filial,  the 
most  dutiful,  understanding  that  the  prime  concern  lies 
beyond  their  fathers.  It  is  their  children  who  call  loud- 
est to  those  that  bear  the  heat  of  the  day. 

Philip  Ouldsbroom  was  the  last  man  to  grow  old  with 
any  distinction,  or  accept  the  inevitable  in  a  philosophic 
spirit.  He  resented  the  slightest  hint  or  suggestion  that 
his  physical  strength  was  upon  the  wane;  yet  he  did 
his  best  to  further  its  declension  by  carelessness  and  in- 
temperance; he  quarrelled  with  his  wife  when  she  es- 
sayed to  limit  his  energies  or  hint  at  the  gathering  weight 
of  his  years  and  the  dignity  and  increasing  repose  proper 
to  them.  Unity  and  her  husband  provided  matter  for 
discussion  between  Quinton  and  Gertrude  Crymes. 

"If  I — a  man  ten  years  younger  than  him — can  slack 
off  and  leave  heavier  work  to  Jack  and  the  hind,  how 
much  more  did  ought  he?  I  cited  Coaker  to  him  but 
yesterday.  'You  mind  Jimmy  Coaker,  who  worked  for 
me  long  years  ago?'  I  said.  'Your  end  will  be  like  his 
if  you  go  on  at  this  gait.    Coaker  didn't  know  when  Time 

259 


260  THE   THTEF   OF  VIRTUE 

had  beat  him.  He  'd  have  dropped  here  if  I  hadn  't  made 
him  go,  and  as  'twas,  he  shortened  his  life  by^his  own 
silliness.  The  things  that  be  little  to  youth  be  big  to 
old  age.  Yet  foolish  men  will  cling  to  youthful  ways  and 
fret  when  Time  says,  "No  more  of  that!"  Coaker 
would  walk  two  miles  on  the  high  road,  fine  or  wet,  every 
day  of  his  life  to  the  end  of  it.  No  matter  how  coarse 
or  how  cold  it  might  be,  out  o '  doors  he  'd  creep  over  they 
two  weary  miles.  Then  he'd  pipe  out  in  his  age-foun- 
dered voice,  "Nought's  wrong — nought's  wrong  with  an 
old  man  as  can  travel  two  mile  under  the  hour  like  what 
I  can."  Go  he  would;  and  he  went  once  too  often  when 
the  wind  was  in  the  east  and  he  had  a  bit  of  a  tissic  in 
the  chest.  It  cut  his  carcass  down  like  a  dead  leaf  off  a 
bough.  They  found  him  halfway  home  again  by  the 
roadside — asleep  as  they  thought ;  but  'twas  death. '  ' ' 

"You  told  Philip  that?" 

"I  did  so,  and  he  only  laughed  at  me  and  said  I  was 
a  lazy  old  man  and  the  shame  of  such  boys  as  him." 

"If  Unity  can't  get  him  to  see  sense,  'tis  pretty  sure 
you  won't." 

"I'd  hoped  that  Martin  would  have  a  bit  of  power 
over  him.    The  sooner  the  better." 

"The  very  thing  his  mother  said.  And  it  will  come, 
but  not  afore  Phil's  a  bit  weaker  and  the  boy's  a  bit 
stronger,"  foretold  Mrs.  Crymes. 

"There's  one,  however,  as  can  hold  him  in  a  trifle, 
and  that's  Tiger." 

"He  can,"  admitted  Gertrude,  "and  even  Minnie 
marked  it.  And  so  did  Martin  too.  There's  no  non- 
sense about  Martin.  He  knows  what  use  Tiger  is.  He's 
got  a  touch  with  Philip  that  none  else  have. ' ' 

"Because  he's  so  much  on  the  same  pattern,"  declared 
Quinton  Crymes.  "In  my  judgment,  and  in  my  sister's, 
'tis  a  great  question  if  Tiger  is  any  use  really.  He'll  get 
Phil  past  a  public  sometimes,  or  make  him  keep  his 
money  in  his  pocket  when  he  wants  to  bring  it  out ;  but 
in  the  weightier  matters  I  hold  with  Unity  that  he's  no 
great  good.  There 's  a  danger,  too,  that  Unity  sees  better 
than  we  can.    Phil  turns  more  and  more  to  Tiger.     That 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  261 

can't  be  denied.  And  Unity  feels  pretty  strong  about  it. 
In  fact,  she's  told  me,  private  like,  that  she'll  breathe 
easier  when  the  young  man 's  gone.  And  you  know  what 
that  means.  The  next  bit  of  news  we  shall  hear,  very 
like,  is  that  Tiger's  said  'good-bye'  to  Hartland. " 

''Philip  would  never  suffer  it.  There 'd  be  a  terrible 
upstore  if  such  a  thing  was  so  much  as  hinted  at,"  said 
his  wife. 

"Trust  Unity.  She  has  her  way  still  in  all  the  big 
matters,  along  of  giving  him  his  way  in  all  the  little. 
But  'tis  harder  and  harder  to  manage  him,  and  she  don 't 
deny  it.  She's  pretty  well  praying  for  Martin's  school- 
ing to  be  ended.  He's  a  tower  of  strength  to  her,  of 
course. ' ' 

' '  She  told  me  not  long  since  that  Martin  can  make  his 
mark  now.  'Tis  his  education,  she  says.  It  won't  be 
denied.  There's  nought  like  learning  to  make  a  fool 
cower  afore  you.  Not  that  he'll  ever  make  his  father 
cower;  but  Unity  hopes,  with  time,  that  he'll  force  a 
little  sense  into  him." 

"And  he'll  have  to  make  my  sister  see  clearer  too, 
here  and  there,"  added  Quinton.  "You  know  what  I 
mean.  If  anything  is  certain  on  this  earth,  'tis  certain 
that  Martin  will  care  about  our  Minnie  presently." 

"He  do  now.  'Tis  wonderful  how  much  he  shows  it — 
seeing  how  little  he  does  show  at  any  time." 

"Of  course  he  does,  and  why  not?  Even  Phil  sees  it, 
and  you  know  how  he's  took  up  with  Minnie  in  conse- 
quence. The  presents  he  gives  her!  Phil's  longing  for 
it  to  happen,  and  would  like  to  see  'em  wedded  out  of 
hand  so  soon  as  the  boy  comes  back  from  school;  but 
Unity ■" 

"She  wants  something  more  in  exchange  for  all  that 
schooling  than  our  Minnie,"  explained  Gertrude  calmly. 
"She's  an  ambitious  woman — as  all  be  with  an  only  son. 
She  '11  prevent  it,  and  don 't  you  think  otherwise. ' ' 

"I  don't  say  that  Martin's  stronger  than  her  already. 
But  it  rests  with  him.  If  he  wants  Minnie,  he'll  have 
her." 

"Well,"  answered  his  wife,  "I'm  the  last  to  wish  a 


262  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

quarrel  with  your  sister.  I  may  be  a  bit  frightened  of 
the  woman's  intellect,  or  I  may  not,  and  I^own  in  her 
young  days  I  didn't  like  her;  but  she's  strong  and 
straight,  and  we've  got  no  call  to  be  anything  but  her 
friends.  She's  a  wonder  to  have  steered  that  man  so 
long." 

' '  And  does  still, ' '  he  said.  ' '  They  are  very  good  com- 
panions for  all  his  vagaries.  Their  quarrels  come  to 
nought,  and,  when  he's  not  drunk,  he's  still  handsome  in 
his  praises.    Well,  he  may  be,  seeing  he's  all  to  blame." 

' '  Her  patience  is  amazing.    Will  it  last  for  ever  ? ' ' 

"  'Twill  last  till  he's  in  his  grave,"  answered  the  man. 

Minnie  came  home  at  this  moment.  She  had  received 
a  few  lines  from  Martin  which  were  enclosed  in  a  letter 
to  his  mother. 

"  I  've  got  the  letter  Martin  promised, ' '  she  said.  * '  He 's 
gone  in  the  first  class  as  he  expected.  There's  four  new 
boys  to  school  this  term,  and  one  he  likes  and  t 'others 
he  don't." 

Quinton  laughed. 

"You'll  have  to  mend  your  speech  come  Martin  gets 
back,"  he  said.  "You  ban't  talking  so  finicking  and 
nice  since  he  went  away." 

She  blushed. 

"I  try  to  remember,"  she  said. 

She  had  grown  into  a  tall  and  handsome  girl.  Her 
eyes  were  large,  dark,  and  a  little  sleepy.  Her  breasts 
were  small ;  her  hands  and  feet  were  small ;  there  was 
already  the  fragrance  of  budding  woman  about  her,  and 
many  young  men  were  haunted  by  the  thought  of  her. 
As  yet  passion  had  not  touched  her  and  her  deep  love 
for  Martin  was  unfinished. 

She  was  depressed  at  his  absence;  she  felt  secretly 
very  glad  that,  when  another  winter  came,  he  would 
return  home  to  leave  it  no  more. 

"Martin  sent  his  love  to  you,  mother.  But  he's  a 
good  bit  worried.  He's  been  called  upon  for  two  shil- 
lings. One  of  the  masters  is  going  away  at  the  end  of 
the  term,  and  they  be  collecting  for  him  to  present  him 
with  a  silver  inkstand  when  he  goes;  and  Martin  says 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  263 

that  he's  been  paid  for  the  work  he's  done  and  is  going 
to  a  bigger  school  and  better  money,  so  there's  no  call,  in 
his  opinion,  to  do  any  such  thing.  And  he's  standing 
out  against  giving  up  the  money,  and  the  other  boys 
aren't  very  kind  about  it." 

' '  They  v^^ouldn  't  be, ' '  said  Quinton.  ' '  I  dare  say  they 
don't  know  the  value  of  money  so  well  as  Martin  does. 
He  always  understood  the  worth  of  it  in  a  way  very 
surprising  for  a  young  chap." 

''What  ought  he  to  do,  mother?"  asked  Minnie. 

' '  He  '11  put  it  to  his  conscience, ' '  she  answered.  ' '  Never 
a  boy  had  such  a  good,  working  conscience  as  Martin. 
He  takes  his  puzzles  before  the  Throne  and  gets  'em 
answered. ' ' 

"He  won't  part,"  prophesied  the  master  of  Stannon. 
"You  mark  me,  his  conscience  will  tell  him  the  two  shil- 
lings be  better  in  his  pocket.  They'll  poke  fun  at  him 
and  call  him  'miser'  and  such  like;  but  he's  not  the  sort 
to  mind  that." 

"Did  he  ax  your  advice,  Minnie?"  inquired  Ger- 
trude. 

"No;  he  never  does.  He's  decided  what  he's  going 
to  do.  'Tis  at  the  end  of  his  letter.  He's  going  to  give 
threepence,  after  making  it  a  subject  in  his  prayers." 

"  'Tisn't  for  us  to  judge  him;  but  if  ever  a  poor  boy 
promised  to  be  a  rich  man,  Martin 's  that  boy, ' '  summed 
up  his  uncle. 

"He  gives  money  to  charities,  however,"  declared 
Minnie.  "He  wouldn't  tell  me  how  much,  because  he 
says  your  right  hand  oughtn't  to  know  what  your  left 
hand  doeth. " 

"Do  his  playmates  like  him,  I  wonder?"  mused  Quin- 
ton. 

' '  Oh,  yes  they  do — very  much, ' '  replied  Minnie.  ' '  Mar- 
tin says  they  do,  and  he  never  would  say  it  if  they  didn't. 
He  says  they  often  bring  quarrels  to  him,  because  they 
know  how  terrible  fair  he  is.  They  oft  make  him  judge 
among  them." 

Sammy  Crymes  entered.  He  was  at  home  for  a  holiday 
from  his  training-ship. 


264  THE   THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Now  Sammy  hated  Martin  more  than  he  hated  any- 
thing else  in  the  world.  %* 

''I  wish  I  had  the  judging  of  him,"  he  said.  "I'd 
judge  for  him  to  be  took  in  our  duck  pond  and  held  down 
under  the  dirt  till  he  was  drownded." 

''You  ought  to  blush  to  say  such  a  thing,"  cried  Minnie 
indignantly.  "He's  done  nothing  to  you  but  try  to  im- 
prove you." 

' '  Beast — beast ! ' '  answered  Samuel.  ' '  I  never  knowed 
a  proper  chap  yet  that  didn't  want  to  fling  stones  at 
him." 

"You  wait  till  you've  been  to  sea,  my  son,  and  larned 
the  ways  of  a  boatswain's  mate,"  said  Quinton.  "Then 
you'll  take  another  view  of  things." 

Sammy  was  not  convinced. 

"If  they'm  like  him  at  sea,  I'll  very  soon  escape  and 
swim  back  ashore  again,"  he  answered.  "But  well  I 
know  they  won't  be.  I'd  sooner  be  lathered  and  cussed 
and  kicked  to  pieces  than  stroked  and  preached  to,  any- 
way. Me  and  Tommy  Bone  and  Will  Westmacott  have 
all  sworn  to  God  we'll  catch  Martin  Ouldsbroom  out  in  a 
crooked  deed  some  day;  and  when  we  do,  the  air  shall 
ring  with  it ! " 

"You  never  will — never,"  declared  Minnie  fiercely. 
"He's  as  high  above  all  you  wretched  boys  as  the  sun 
above  the  moon." 

"You're  as  bad  as  him,"  answered  her  brother;  "you 
was  pretty  decent  once;  now  you'm  under  his  thumb, 
and  no  good  to  anybody." 


CHAPTER  X 

When  presently  Philip  Ouldsbroom  announced  he  had 
raised  Tiger 's  wages,  in  order  that  the  young  man  might 
save  more  money,  Unity  was  reminded  of  former  anxiety. 
Her  cares  in  this  matter  had  slumbered  of  late,  but  now 
they  woke  again;  she  marked  the  close-woven  texture 
of  the  friendship,  and  knew  that  never  a  day  passed  but 
Philip  praised  Tiger  and  sought  his  company.  She  re- 
membered her  former  intention,  therefore,  and  prepared 
to  act  upon  it.    But  first  she  sounded  her  husband. 

"I  suppose,  after  Tiger  marries  we  shall  have  to  say 
'good-bye'  to  him,"  she  remarked  on  an  occasion  when 
she  and  Philip  were  driving  into  Tavistock. 

"  'Say  good-bye  to  Tiger'!"  he  cried.  "Me!  Never 
— never.  Tiger  stands  for  me.  I've  made  him.  His 
sense,  his  mind,  his  way  of  looking  at  things — all  be  mine. 
I've  made  Tiger,  I  tell  you — everything  but  his  thews 
and  sinews ;  and  I  *be  mighty  proud  of  him.  When  fools 
doubt  me  and  cold-shoulder  me,  as  I've  been  stung  to 
mark  here  and  there,  then  I  say,  '  Look  at  Tiger.  There 's 
a  chap  that  be  me  over  again ;  and  who  has  a  word  against 
him?'  To  go!  I'd  like  to  see  him  go!  He  won't  be 
wedded  yet  awhile — not  till  he's  of  age  at  earliest,  for 
I  forbid  it  sooner;  but  come  he  does,  then  we  must  see. 
I'd  rather  build  him  a  cottage  with  these  hands  than 
let  him  go.  For  that  matter,  he  wouldn't  go  if  I  was 
to  try  and  make  him.  You  must  be  daft  even  to  think 
such  a  thing.  And  Martin  too?  What  would  Martin 
say?" 

She  calmed  him  down  and  set  her  thoughts  to  Tiger. 
He  was  now  nineteen,  and  while,  indeed,  largely  imbued 
with  the  spirit  of  his  master,  displayed  as  well  a  native 

265 


266  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

sense  that  he  had  not  gleaned  from  Quldsbroom.  He 
worshipped  Philip,  if  he  worshipped  anything,  and  would 
have  laid  his  life  down  for  the  man.  It  was  no  hyperbole 
that  made  him  actually  declare  as  much  when  Unity 
advised  him  to  leave  Hartland.  She  chose  a  moment  apt 
for  this  direction,  and  waited  to  speak  until  her  husband 
was  from  home  on  business  nigh  Exeter.  Then  came  a 
day  when  she  gave  Tiger  his  favourite  dishes  at  dinner 
and  treated  him  with  unusual  kindness.  The  meal  ended, 
she  bade  him  light  his  pipe  and  come  upon  the  Moor. 

"You'll  stare  that  I  should  waste  my  time  or  ax  you 
to  waste  yours.  But  'tis  not  to  do  that  that  I  want  you, 
though  it  may  seem  so.  Your  sense  be  very  great  for 
your  age,  and  I  rely  on  it  now.  I'm  going  to  say  what 
I  wouldn't  say  to  any  other  young  man  no  older  than 
you.  And  'tis  a  difficult  and  a  hard  thing  to  say.  But 
I  han't  feared  to  say  it  to  you,  Tiger.  Only  mind  this: 
I  don't  speak  it  out  of  any  unkindness.  Far  from  that. 
You  know  how  many  depend  upon  me,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking.  And  of  course  my  son  and  his  father  come 
first.    Their  good  is  your  good — isn't  it?    Say  it  is." 

"Be  there  any  need  to  ?  I  owe  them  everything.  Every 
hope  I  've  got  in  the  world  pretty  near  depends  upon  'em. 
What  they've  been  to  me  I  shall  never  forget  and  never 
be  able  to  repay.  If  me  and  Master  Martin  have  a  tussle 
now  and  again,  'tis  nought,  and  we're  no  worse  friends 
after.  He's  far  away  cleverer  than  me,  and  well  I  know 
it.  And  as  for  master,  I'd  give  my  life  for  him — God's 
my  judge." 

"I  know  you  speak  in  earnest,  and  that  makes  it  easier 
for  me  to  go  on.  There's  things  harder  than  giving  your 
life,  Tiger — harder  far.  I  know  what  I'm  saying,  for 
I've  had  trials  and  sorrows  deeper  than  fall  to  the  lot  of 
many  women.  Life's  no  great  thing — though  you  can't 
offer  more,  because,  to  the  young,  life  looks  everything. 
Now  listen  to  me.  I  want  you  to  do  something,  and 
'twill  be  the  greatest  thing  you  ever  have  done,  or  be 
ever  likely  to.  And  first  I  '11  tell  you  what  'tis,  and  then 
I'll  tell  you  why  'tis." 

"For  master,  or  Master  Martin?" 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  267 

"For  both  of  'em.  For  their  future  peace  and  future 
friendship;  for  justice  and  right  and  reason;  for  every 
proper  cause  you  can  think  of. ' ' 

"Then  I'll  do  it,  ma'am,  whatever  it  is." 

"Don't  you  be  too  sure.  'Tis  a  hard  thing,  mind,  and 
I  've  had  many  an  hour  of  trouble  thinking  upon  it  afore 
I  could  screw  myself  up  to  ask.  Don't  think  I  ask  it 
with  a  light  heart — far  from  that.  None  will  feel  it  more 
than  me  if  you  grant  it.  And  if  you  refuse — but  you 
won't  refuse.  I  know  you  won't  refuse;  and  'tis  that 
that  have  made  me  hang  fire  so  long  before  I  asked.  But 
I  know,  so  well  as  I  know  any  mortal  thing,  that  it  ought 
to  happen  for  my  son 's  sake. ' ' 

"It  shall  happen,"  answered  the  other.  "If  you  say 
'tis  right,  then  I'll  do  it." 

"Master's  just  put  up  your  money,  he  tells  me.  And 
very  glad  I  was  to  know  it.  And  I  know  more  than 
that.  I  know  a  man  who  '11  give  you  half-a-crown  a  week 
higher  yet.  We  can't,  because  we've  got  to  think  of  Mar- 
tin 's  schooling  for  a  bit  longer ;  and  I  may  tell  you  now, 
it  have  been  a  very  great  drain  and  struggle  to  find  such 
a  lot  of  money;  but  for  him — our  only  one — we  did  it 
gladly.  But  it  means  close  living,  and  I  warn  you  'twill 
be  years  and  years  afore  you  can  hope  for  another  rise. ' ' 

' '  What 's  that  to  me  ?  I  'm  more  than  satisfied.  I  never 
axed." 

' '  It  must  be  something  to  you.  Look  forward.  You  've 
got  a  wife  in  sight,  and  a  rare  good  girl  too.  Life's 
different  then,  and  ought  to  be  diiferent." 

He  considered  a  moment  and  an  expression  of  dread 
crossed  his  face. 

"D'you  want ?"  he  began.    Then  he  stopped. 

"I'll  be  honest,  Tiger,"  continued  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom. 
"I  won't  pretend  I'm  saying  these  things  for  your  own 
sake  only.  I  put  your  wisdom  first;  now  I'll  put  your 
duty.  Master's  very  fond  of  you — ^very  fond  of  you, 
Tiger." 

"I'd  sooner  know  that  than  anything  in  the  world, 
ma'am,  and  I'm  terrible  proud  to  know  it." 

"And  so's  Martin  fond  of  you." 


268  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

''I  believe  he  is." 

' '  Are  you  fond  of  him  though  ? ' ' 

'*Yes,  I  am — wish  I  may  die  if  I  ban't." 

"The  case  is  this.  I've  hesitated  long  to  tell  you; 
but  now  I  must.  Martin's  father  finds  Martin  difficult. 
'Twas  bound  to  be  so,  because  they  have  different  natures. 
And,  because  Martin's  what  he  is,  despite  his  hard  efforts, 
he  can 't  quite  win  to  my  husband.   You  've  marked  that  ? ' ' 

"  'Tis  only  now  and  again.  Master  very  well  knows 
the  wonderful  rare  sort  his  son  be. ' ' 

"No,  he  doesn't — he  can't;  and  I'll  tell  you  for  why. 
He  looks  from  Martin  to  you,  and  in  you  he  sees  what 
he  likes  a  thousand  times  better  than  his  own  son. ' ' 

"Never!" 

* '  'Tis  truth,  and  'tis  natural  it  should  so  fall  out ;  and 
I  don't  blame  you  at  all.  Never  have  and  never  shall. 
But  master's  proud  of  you;  he  sees  a  quick  pupil  and  a 
ready  learner  in  you.  He's  made  you  what  you  are 
largely,  and  of  course  we'm  always  proud  of  the  thing 
that  we've  made  ourselves." 

"And  I'm  proud  to  be  like  him,  I'm  sure.  But  Mar- 
tin's higher  and  finer  than  me,  of  course.  And  the 
master  knows  it." 

' '  Martin 's  different.  I  don 't  say  he 's  higher  and  finer. 
You're  a  good,  straight  chap.  Tiger,  and  you  deserve 
to  be  happy,  and  you  will  be;  but,  as  things  are,  you 
won't  be  happy  here — just  for  this  fatal  cause  that  you 
are  more  to  master  than  his  own  son. ' ' 

"Never!    Such  a  thing  couldn't  be  in  nature." 

"Such  a  thing  has  come  to  be.  And  such  a  thing 
won't  breed  happiness  presently.  I'm  not  frightened  of 
it — for  why  ?  Because  I  trust  your  growing  wits  to  un- 
derstand the  master  better  than  anybody  but  me  myself ; 
yes,  better  even  than  Martin  can.  You're  like  Philip  in 
a  lot  of  ways,  and  so  you  see  and  feel  about  him  in  a 
fashion  that  Martin  can't.  His  mind  is  different,  you 
see,  and  the  things  that  he  likes  and  the  things  that  he 
shuns  are  different  from  those  his  father  likes  and  shuns. 
And  so  it's  come  about  that  while  my  husband  is  proud 
of  Martin  and  sees  his  gifts  and  virtues,  yet  he  turns  to 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  269 

you  more  and  more  for  companionship  and  understand- 
ing. I  trust  you,  as  I  said  before.  I  know  you're  honour- 
able and  high-minded  and  would  never  influence  my  hus- 
band against  Martin " 

**Good  Lord,  missis,  how  could  I?" 

**I  know,  I  say;  but  you've  got  to  ask  yourself  this 
(luestion.  Is  it  good  for  Martin  for  you  to  be  here?  If 
you  are  at  his  father's  ear  all  the  time,  how  can  Martin 
get  to  it?  If  he  gives  heed  to  you  always  and  hears 
his  own  ideas  and  opinions  echoed  from  you,  is  it  helping 
Martin  to  get  any  nearer  to  his  father  ?  I  don 't  say  that 
you  are  anything  but  on  the  right  side,  and  I  know, 
young  though  you  are,  you've  got  a  bit  of  power  with 
master  and  have  used  it  to  help  him  to  be  wiser  on  a 
Saturday  night  once  or  twice,  and  at  other  times  also — I 
don't  deny  that.  But  I  do  say  that  if  there's  a  shadow 
of  fear  you  are  coming  between  him  and  his  son,  or  even 
drawing  him  a  thought  away  from  his  son,  then,  Tiger, 
you  must  bethink  yourself  and  look  how  your  duty  seems. 
I'm  only  a  woman,  but  I'm  a  mother  and  jealous  for  my 
boy.  I'll  say  no  more  than  that,  because  I've  a  great 
opinion  of  you  and  a  great  opinion  of  your  sense  and 
judgment." 

He  nodded  and  gloom  fell  upon  him. 

' '  You  want  me  to  go  ? " 

'  *  God  knows  I  do  not, ' '  she  answered.  "  I  've  felt  like 
a  mother  to  you  these  many  years.  You  're  a  good  chap, 
and  the  place  will  be  the  darker  for  your  going  to  all  of 
us.  I  don 't  want  you  to  go,  any  more  than  Martin  wants 
you  to  go,  or  your  master  wants  you  to  go.  But  I'm 
quick-sighted  and  far-sighted.  And  I  see  that  what's 
brewing  will  be  a  cruel  bitter  cup  for  more  than  one  of 
us.  I  only  want  you  to  see  it  too.  I  don't  bid  you  go; 
I  only  bid  you  think.  There's  no  hurry  at  all.  Turn  it 
over  in  your  mind.  Look  all  round  it.  Remember  Mr. 
Ouldsbroom's  nature,  and  the  fiery  unreason  of  him, 
and  the  rage  that  sometimes  flashes  out  of  his  power- 
lessness  to  understand  Martin.  Remember  that  in  right 
and  justice  none  should  even  cast  a  shadow  between  a 
father  and  his  son.     Ask  yourself  your  duty.     You'd 


270  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

lay  down  your  life  for  the  master.  You  said  it  and  I 
know  it.  And  I  told  you  there  was  harder  things  that 
men  and  women  be  sometimes  called  to  do  than  to  die. 
Think  of  it — think  of  it  with  all  your  brains,  Tiger,  Say 
not  another  word  upon  the  subject,  and  come  and  tell 
me  what  it  all  looks  like  in  a  month  from  now.  And, 
mind  this,  I'm  your  friend  always,  whatever  you  may 
decide  to  do  for  my  son's  sake.  It  all  comes  back  to 
him.    I  won't  deny  that." 

Tiger  nodded  slowly.  He  was  already  occupied  with 
the  great  problem. 

"  'Twon't  take  a  month,"  he  said.  "I'll  turn  it  over 
right  away  and  decide  so  soon  as  I  can.  What  you  think 
is  always  right — I  know  that.  Who  don't?  I  set  great 
store  on  all  you've  taught  me,  missis,  because,  of  course, 
you'm  Avise  and  up  in  years  and  know  the  ins  and  outs 
of  people." 

She  was  a  little  moved. 

"Go  and  think;  go  and  think,"  she  said.  "You're  a 
good  boy — and  you've  been  a  real  help  to  me — more  of  a 
help  than  you  know;  but  there  it  is.  I've  spoken,  and 
I  can 't  call  back  a  word  of  it. ' ' 

She  left  him  then.  She  had  not  played  a  part.  Her 
words,  while  subtly  chosen,  reflected  the  truth.  She 
felt  kindly  to  the  young  man,  and  would  have  been  con- 
tent to  let  him  take  a  son's  place  at  Hartland  had  no 
son  existed.  But,  for  Martin's  peace  and  prospects,  she 
believed  that  her  husband  and  Tiger  had  better  part, 
and  she  had  spoken  accordingly. 

She  entertained  no  doubt  of  the  issue.  Tiger  was  as 
good  as  gone.  She  knew  him.  He  would  not  question 
her.  It  remained  to  help  him  to  go.  The  departure 
must  be  difficult,  and  Tiger  would  need  her  help.  Already 
she  began  to  consider  the  problem  and  how  to  appease 
Philip  when  the  trial  came  upon  him. 

She  believed  that  she  had  won  Tiger ;  she  also  guessed 
that  only  after  a  cruel  rupture  would  the  young  man 
break  away  from  her  husband.  The  quarrel  must  take 
place  and  must  be  painful.  The  brunt  she  trusted  to 
throw  on  Tiger  if  possible.    It  could  not  hurt  him  after 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  271 

he  had  left  Hartland ;  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained 
and  much  to  be  lost  by  involving  herself  in  differences 
with  Philip.  Tiger  must  give  warning ;  and  he  must  let 
nothing  shake  him  into  changing  his  mind  afterwards. 
That  attitude  would  certainly  estrange  Philip,  and  thus 
the  desired  end  must  appear.  If  absolutely  necessary, 
she  was  prepared  herself  to  be  embroiled ;  but  only  if  ab- 
solutely necessary.  One  thing  was  vital :  that  Martin 
should  not  suffer.  She  saw  clearly  that  he  could  not 
do  so,  since  he  cared  well  for  Tiger  and  would  stand  on 
his  father's  side  against  his  friend's  departure. 

Thus  she  argued,  not  without  comfort  to  herself,  nor 
guessed  how  the  interests  of  another  w^oman  would  bring 
her  deftly  woven  web  to  ruin. 

Tiger  mourned  this  position  very  heartily.  It  be- 
wildered him  and  even  tortured  him,  for  his  young  heart 
was  large ;  his  life  was  full  and  joyous ;  he  had  dreamed 
of  no  change,  and  his  highest  ambition  in  life  was  to  have 
Mary  French  and  a  cottage  at  Postbridge ;  to  rise  until  he 
should  be  head  man  at  Hartland ;  to  work  for  Philip,  and 
for  Martin  after  Philip  in  the  future.  To  be  torn  away 
from  the  only  world  he  knew — to  be  faced  with  this  grim 
necessity — quelled  Tiger's  spirit  as  life  had  never  quelled 
it  until  now. 

He  shook  his  head  very  wisely,  very  mournfully,  to 
himself,  and  went  back  to  his  work  after  leaving  Mrs. 
Ouldsbroom. 

"I  knowed  it  couldn't  last,"  he  thought.  "Something 
told  me  that  life  was  going  too  suent  with  me ;  and  now — 
but  'tis  a  facer  sure  enough.  Yet  who  could  have  put  it 
afore  me  wiser  than  what  she  did  1 ' ' 

He  turned  his  mind  to  Mary  French,  and  there  came 
a  fleeting  doubt  whether  he  should  ask  her  advice,  or 
merely  tell  her  of  his  decision. 

"She'll  be  all  for  my  stopping  and  try  to  drive  me 
into  it,"  he  reflected.  "Mightn't  be  ezacally  fair  to  ask 
her — especially  as  my  mind's  made  up." 

He  decided  without  telling  his  sweetheart.  Three  days 
later  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom  met  him  returning  from  Post- 
bridge  alone. 


272  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"I've  settled,  ma'am,"  he  said.  ''You  know  best 
about  it.  I'm  hopeful  that  you'll  let  me  come  up  over 
sometimes.  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  I  wasn't  to  be  wel- 
come to  Hartland.  Master's  been  more  than  a  master  to 
me — a  father  a 'most — to  say  it  respectfully,  I'm  sure. 
I  '11  tell  him  come  Monday  and  give  him  a  month 's  warn- 
ing." 

' '  I  knew  you  would, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  know  what  you  're 
made  of.  Remember  all  I  've  told  you  and  be  firm  about 
it,  Tiger.  'Twill  be  difficult  to  go;  but  you're  right; 
and,  come  presently,  you  '11  know  you  're  right. ' ' 

* '  I  '11  stick  to  it — say  what  he  may. ' ' 

"And  I'll  talk  to  Mr.  Chave  at  Runnage.  He's  been 
wanting  you  this  longful  time,  and  he'll  be  thankful  to 
get  you  at  your  own  money,  I  believe. ' ' 

He  shook  his  head  fiercely. 

"Don't— don't,"  he  cried.  "For  God's  sake  don't 
name  money,  missis.     'Tisn  't  for  that —  'tisn  't  for  that. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XI 

Jonathan  French's  sister  was  a  girl  of  some  character. 
The  lonely  life  at  Teign  Head  pleased  her  but  little,  and 
she  looked  forward  with  keen  anticipation  to  her  mar- 
riage and  a  home  in  civilisation. 

To  find  her  sweetheart  cast  down  and  abstracted  was 
an  event  so  amazing  that  Mary  sought  now  to  learn  the 
reason.  The  lovers  met  upon  a  Sunday  and  walked  over 
the  Moor  together.  But  Tiger's  pipe  remained  in  his 
pocket  and  an  unfamiliar  gloom  clouded  his  brow. 

The  girl  strove  to  cheer  and  charm  him.  She  told  him 
to  put  his  arm  round  her;  she  bade  him  rub  her  soft 
cheek  with  his  ruddy  one.  He  did  these  things,  and 
more;  but  he  relapsed  again  and  again  into  his  own 
thoughts,  and  once,  when  she  asked  him  a  question,  he 
did  not  even  answer. 

Such  a  state  was  intolerable,  and  Mary  set  about  end- 
ing it. 

"Pitch  on  this  stone,"  she  said.  "I  ban't  going  a 
yard  farther.  I'd  sooner  walk  along  with  a  bear  than 
you.  Sit  down  and  fetch  out  your  pipe  and  light  it,  and 
then  tell  me  plain  what  have  happened.  I  know  you 
well  enough — better  far  than  you  know  me,  for  that 
matter — and  never,  never  afore  have  I  seed  you  so  down- 
daunted.    So  out  with  it  and  hear  if  I  can  mend  it. ' ' 

"You  can't,"  he  answered.  "If  'twas  in  the  power 
of  mortal  woman  to  do  so,  of  course  you  would,  Molly. 
But  this — well,  'tis  a  terrible  bad  business  and  I  won't 
pretend  different.  Mind  you,  it's  got  to  be.  I  see  that 
clear  enough.  But  I  be  cut  up — cut  to  ribbons,  you 
might  say." 

273  18 


274  THE   THIEF  'OF   VIRTUE 

"You  ought  to  have  told  me  long  ago,  then,  and  not 
left  me  to  tind  out." 

"  'Tisn't  a  thing  of  long  standing.  I  meant  to  tell  you, 
of  course ;  but  I  had  to  make  up  my  own  mind  first. ' ' 

"I  doubt  if  you'd  a  right  to  make  up  your  mind  about 
anything  without  telling  me,"  she  declared.  "Suppose 
I  don't  hold  with  what  you  think?" 

He  lighted  his  pipe  and  did  not  answer  immediately. 

"You've  got  to  hold  with  it,"  he  said  presently. 

Then  he  told  her  of  his  conversation  with  Mrs.  Oulds- 
broom  and  of  his  decision  to  leave  Hartland. 

"You  be  going  to  be  Mrs.  Tiger,"  he  said,  "and  my 
secrets  are  yours,  and  my  good's  yours  and  my  bad's 
yours,  though  I  wish  I  could  keep  that  to  myself.  And 
so  I  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  you.  But  'tis  done,  un- 
derstand. To-morrow  morning  I  tell  master  that  I'm 
away  in  a  month.  That  will  be  just  afore  Martin  comes 
back  for  the  summer  holidays,  you  see." 

"  'Tis  a  hugeous  upheaval,"  she  declared  blankly. 

"So  'tis,  then,  and  I  can't  see  my  life  going  on  away 
from  Phil  Ouldsbroom.  But  it's  got  to  be.  And  I  shall 
work  at  Runnage — for  Farmer  Chave,  it  seems." 

"But  you  don't  want  to  go?" 

Tiger  stared  at  her  reproachfully  that  she  could  ask 
such  a  question. 

She  knew  him  well  and  understood  that  his  mind  was 
made  up;  and  she  loved  him  well  and  set  about  con- 
sidering whether  this  blow  might  be  averted.  Mary  her- 
self cared  not  where  he  worked.  She  liked  Philip  Oulds- 
broom, for  he  had  smiled  upon  her  romance,  toid  her 
what  he  thought  of  Tiger,  and  praised  her  as  a  sweet- 
heart worthy  of  such  a  valiant  spirit.  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom, 
however,  had  ignored  her,  and  Martin  she  scarcely  knew. 
But  the  meaning  of  his  home  to  her  lover  was  very  clearly 
understood  by  Mary,  and  she  entered  straight  into  his 
heart  now  and  sympathised  with  its  soreness.  She  came 
and  sat  close  to  him  and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck. 

"Be  there  no  way  out?"  she  asked. 

"Plenty,"  he  answered;  "but  there's  no  way  to  bide 
in.    I 've  told  you  all  the  woman  said.    She's  terrible  wise 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  275 

and  never  wrong.  She  was  kind  too — kinder  than  ever  I 
knowed  her  to  be  afore.  I  might  have  been  her  own  son. 
She  said  that  she  felt  a 'most  as  if  I  was." 

"  'Tis  for  her  own  son  she's  done  it.  She's  frightened 
for  him.  She  thinks  more  of  him  than  of  her  husband. 
I'm  sure  I  never  should  feel  like  that." 

"If  us  had  ten  cubs,  your  old  Tiger  would  always  be 
first  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  he  would." 

"I  know  it,"  he  declared.  "Never  a  couple  loved 
each  other  like  what  me  and  you  do.  'Tis  terrible  out 
o'  the  common — I  can  see  that,  and  it  may  not  happen 
again  in  the  world.  Why,  you  look  round  among  the 
married  people,  Molly,  and  you'll  see  at  a  glance  they 
don't  feel  half,  nor  yet  a  quarter,  of  what  me  and  you 
feel !  None  of  'em  don 't.  But  love  you  as  I  do,  I  ban 't 
company  for  you  this  afternoon.  I'm  thinking  of  to- 
morrow. I  hate  like  hell  to  hurt  that  man.  After  you, 
he's  more  to  me  than  anybody  in  the  world.  And  the 
cruel  thing  is  that  I  can't  tell  him  why  I  be  going." 

She  reflected,  and  his  words  woke  the  needed  inspira- 
tion. But  she  kept  it  to  herself.  She  even  concealed  it 
falsely  with  a  sigh. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  can't.  What  shall  you  answer 
when  he  asks  you  why  you  want  to  leave  ? ' ' 

"Tell  me.  'Tis  here  you  can  help.  I  had  it  in  my 
mind  to  ax  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom  that  very  question.  Then 
I  thought  you  was  the  properest  one  to  help  me.  I  want 
to  go  off  without  angering  the  man.  I  should  be  wisht  to 
my  dying  day  if  he  didn't  forgive  me.  Set  your  wits  to 
work  on  that." 

"I  shall,"  she  promised.  "  'Tis  right  that  you  come 
to  me,  and  I  should  have  been  properly  vexed  with  you, 
Tiger,  if  you'd  kept  this  a  secret  till  'twas  done." 

"  'Tis  done — or  so  good  as  done.  But  if  you  can  find 
how  I  'm  to  put  it  to  him  clever  enough  not  to  hurt,  then 
I'll  say  you're  the  wittiest  woman  ever  comed  out  of 
Dartymoor. ' ' 

"It'll  take  a  bit  of  thinking  on,"  she  replied.  "For 
the  minute  you  must  do  naught.    I  can't  be  expected  to 


276  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

light  on  the  proper  thought  all  to  once.  You  must  give 
me  a  week,  Tiger — a  week  at  the  least.  I  will  have  a 
week.    And  little  enough  time  for  such  a  job,  I'm  sure." 

He  readily  admitted  this. 

' '  A  week  more  or  less  don 't  signify  now, ' '  he  answered. 
' '  And  a  week  you  shall  have.  I  '11  tell  the  missis  I  shan  't 
speak  till  Mondav  after  next;  and  I'll  tell  her  for 
why." 

' '  Don 't  name  me.    Not  a  word  about  me. ' ' 

"No,  no.  I'll  just  say  that  in  giving  notice  I  want 
to  weigh  my  words  very  careful.  'Tis  natural  I  should ; 
and  so  long  as  I'm  gone  afore  the  holidays  come  round, 
her  turn's  served." 

They  dismissed  the  subject,  and  Tiger  grew  a  little 
more  cheerful,  now  that  Mary  shared  his  burden;  but 
it  was  her  turn  to  become  silent. 

She  excused  herself  for  it  by  the  magnitude  of  the 
problem  that  he  had  set  her. 

' '  All  the  same, ' '  she  said,  ' '  you  can  keep  up  your  hope, 
for  I  feel  'tis  a  thing  quite  within  my  reach  to  tell  you 
the  right  word." 

He  doubted  it,  left  her  presently  at  the  door  of  Teign 
Head  cottage,  and  returned  home. 

Then  Mary  began  to  think  in  earnest,  and  she  followed 
a  conclusion  that  had  already  flashed  upon  her  mind. 
Left  alone,  without  the  distraction  of  Tiger's  presence, 
one  resolute  thought  took  possession  of  her,  and  she  de- 
termined to  act  before  the  day  was  ended. 

She  well  knew  the  course  of  events  in  Hartland,  and, 
at  evening  time,  when  it  was  certain  Mrs.  Ouldsbroom 
would  have  gone  to  church  and  Tiger  be  out  of  the  way 
upon  the  farm,  Mary  French  paid  her  visit.  Fortune 
favoured  her,  and  she  found  the  master  at  home.  He 
stood  at  his  door  smoking  and  talking  to  a  mounted 
friend  who  had  ridden  over  from  Princetown.  At  sights 
of  the  girl  he  was  about  to  lift  his  voice  and  shout  for 
Tiger;  but  she  stopped  him. 

a  >fp-g  y^^  J  ^jjjj^  ^Q  ggg^  gir;  and  I'll  be  very  much 

obliged  if  you'll  not  let  Tiger  know  I've  called." 
Fearing  a  lovers'  quarrel,  Philip  prepared  to  soothe 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  277 

her.  The  visitor  trotted  off,  and  Ouldsbroom  invited 
Mary  to  come  in. 

"You  and  Tiger  haven't  had  a  row?  Don't  you  tell 
me  that,  for  I  won't  believe  it,"  he  said.  "Too  sensible 
for  any  such  nonsense,  I  should  hope. ' ' 

"  'Tisn't  very  likely,"  she  answered.  "He  says  there 
never  was  two  tokened  in  this  world  as  thought  such  a 
lot  of  each  other  as  him  and  me  do. ' ' 

' '  I  could  tell  him  of  another  such  a  pair — not  that  he  'd 
believe  it,  of  course.  He's  a  lucky  young  devil,  Molly, 
as  I've  often  told  him." 

Tiger  was  heard  outside,  and  the  girl  put  her  finger  to 
her  lips.  Philip  thereupon  went  out,  sent  Mary's  lover 
away  on  an  errand  to  the  other  side  of  the  farm-houses 
and  returned  to  her. 

"Now  then — out  with  the  trouble,"  he  said;  and  she 
obeyed.  Mary  took  fewer  words  than  Tiger  had  taken, 
but  they  were  well  chosen,  and  swiftly  she  burst  the 
thunderbolt  of  Tiger's  intended  flight  upon  his  master's 
head. 

'  *  And  whether  'tis  wicked  of  me  to  tell  you,  or  whether 
it  isn't,  I  don't  know,"  concluded  Mary.  "But  loving 
Tiger  like  what  I  do,  and  knowing  how  awful  he'd  feel 
it  to  go,  I  had  to  tell  you  or  die  for  it.  For  I  won 't  keep 
my  tongue  inside  my  lips  and  see  that  Tiger  wronged ; 
and  you  would  have  wronged  him  if  he'd  done  this  here 
thing  and  gone  and  given  you  no  reason.  So  I  want  for 
to  tell  you  the  reason,  and  that  is  because  your  missis  be 
feared  you'm  too  much  addicted  to  Tiger.  And  I  hope 
you  '11  forgive  me  for  speaking ;  and  I  beg  to  goodness  as 
you  won't  tell  Tiger  I've  been  here.  I  promised  him  I 
should  hit  on  a  plan  when  he  axed  me  whatever  he  should 
say  to  you ;  but  I  didn  't  tell  him  what  the  plan  was ;  and 
I'm  very  doubtful  how  he'd  take  it  if  he  knowed  I'd 
been  so  busy.    Still  I  felt  'twas  only  fair  to  him ' ' 

"Say  no  more  and  get  home.  If  you  go  down  the  lane 
and  up  the  stream  he  won't  see  you.  Leave  the  rest  to 
me.  By  God !  we  '11  have  some  thunder  and  lightning 
over  this!  You've  done  right — dead  right.  And  you 
can  set  your  mind  at  rest  and  be  off. ' ' 


278  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

He  turned  his  back  upon  her  and  forgot  her  existence. 
A  mighty  storm  beat  up  black  over  the  blue  sky  of  his 
mind,  and  its  genial  horizons  vanished.  He  looked  at  his 
watch  and  perceived  that  Unity  would  not  be  home  until 
an  hour  had  passed.  He  strode  about — for  an  age  it 
seemed  to  him — then  he  looked  at  his  watch  again.  Five 
minutes  were  passed,  and  he  had  thought  that  fifty  were 
gone.  Dusk  began  to  darken  the  earth  as  he  went  out 
hatless  towards  Postbridge  to  meet  his  wife.  He  burnt 
with  a  sense  of  unutterable  injury.  His  soul  was  poured 
out  upon  this  matter.  It  dominated  him  as  the  first  and 
only  thing  in  the  world.  It  bulked  larger  and  larger  as 
he  thought  upon  it.  From  every  aspect  it  appeared  a 
shameful,  wicked,  cold-blooded  plot  against  him.  It 
meant  so  much.  Not  only  had  she  planned  to  take  Tiger 
away,  but  she  had  so  ordered  it  that  Tiger,  by  the  act  of 
departing,  must  make  Philip  his  enemy;  and  that  she 
should  have  thought  such  a  step  was  necessary  at  all 
could  only  mean  that  she  doubted  her  husband's  love  for 
Martin.  He  worked  himself  into  a  fever  of  rage  before 
she  appeared.  Then,  as  Unity  proceeded  alone  up  the 
lane  from  Postbridge  homeward,  Philip  stalked  out  from 
a  gate  by  the  way  and  immediately  fell  upon  her. 

"What  the  hell's  this  I  hear  about  Tiger?  I'd  like  to 
know  what  it  means  afore  I  speak,  and  if  'tis  true  and 
if  'tisn't.  Let  God  judge  me  if — why  don't  you  answer 
— why  don't  you  answer  me?" 

"Has  he  spoken  to  you?" 

"No,  he  hasn't;  but  somebody  else,  as  seemed  to  know 
what  she  was  talking  about,  have  done  so. ' ' 

' '  What  have  you  heard  then  ? ' ' 

"I've  heard  this:  that  you — you — behind  my  back — 
I  very  near  told  the  girl  she  was  a  liar.  But  jolly  soon 
I  saAV  she  wasn't.  You  and  only  you  it  is.  You've  gone 
unbeknawnst  to  me  and  told  him  to  go — the  chap  that 
I've  liked  better  than  anybody  but  my  own  son,  since 
poor  Henry  dropped.  Shameful,  I  call  it — and  a  damned 
silly  thing  too;  for  don't  you  know  me?  Be  I  the  sort 
to  let  my  will  down  afore — there — speak — speak,  can't 
you?    Why  be  you  so  quiet?    Tell  your  story,  if  you've 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  279 

got  one.  I'm  patient — ban't  I?  I  know  you — 'tis  some 
stupid  t^vist  in  you.  I'm  reasonable,  and  I  know  you. 
Get  on,  then,  say  what  'tis  all  about  and  what  bee's  in 
your  bonnet  now. ' ' 

They  were  standing  midway  between  Hartland  and  the 
village.  A  man  came  running  up  from  Postbridge,  but 
neither  heard  him. 

Unity  answered. 

"You  say  you'll  be  reasonable,  Phil,  and  that's  all  I 
ask.  You  shall  know  all  about  it.  But  first  tell  me  who 
told  you?" 

"That  girl  Tiger's  got.  It  seems  he's  going  to  give 
me  notice,  because  you  've  axed  him  to  do  so  on  the  quiet. 
That's  the  case  in  a  nutshell,  and  I  want  to  know  whether 
'tis  true  or  false." 

' '  You  must  hear  the ' ' 

"Is  it  true  or  false?" 
'  It 's  true ;  and  now  list  to  the  reason- 


"Damn  the  reason!  There's  no  reason  but  some  mag- 
got in  your  fool's  brain!  I  told  you  back-along,  when 
you  hinted  he  might  go,  that  I'd  never  suffer  it.  He's 
mine — body  and  soul ;  and  if  he  was  to  fall  on  his  knees 
to  me  to  leave,  I'd  not  hear  him.  And  knowing  that — 
behind  my  back " 

She  considered  bitterly, 

"How  easy  to  be  misunderstood,"  she  said.  "How 
the  carefullest  plan  may  go  crooked — once  a  man's 
hitched  to  a  woman !  But  I  know  you  '11  listen  to  me  now. 
Perhaps  I  was  wrong;  but  you're  not  one  to  condemn 
your  wife  unheard,  Phil.  At  least  you'll  let  me  tell  my 
side." 

* '  Tell  it  then ;  but  all  the  same  you  've  got  none. ' ' 

She  was  going  to  speak  when  they  were  overtaken,  and 
the  running  man  reached  them. 

"Be  that  Mr.  Ouldsbroom?"  he  asked. 

' '  Yes,  it  is ;  and  what  do  you  want  ? ' ' 

"I  want  you,  and  'tis  good  chance  you'm  on  the  way. 
Barbara  Hext's  going.  She's  been  struck  again — but  an 
hour  ago;  and  they'm  with  her,  and  Mrs.  Dury  says  she 
can't  last  the " 


280  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

Philip  heard  no  more.  For  the  moment  his  own  affairs 
vanished  from  his  mind,  and  he  set  off  instantly  to  Post- 
bridge  as  fast  as  he  could  go. 

The  old  woman  was  dying,  as  it  seemed,  but  she  re- 
tained consciousness  and  showed  pleasure  at  sight  of  her 
friend.  They  had  got  her  to  bed  and  sent  for  the  doctor. 
He  came  presently  and  directed  treatment;  though  he 
held  out  little  hope  that  she  could  survive  until  another 
dawn.  Philip  stayed  with  her,  but  the  thing  she  desired 
to  impart  she  could  not.  She  indicated  that  she  wished 
him  to  stop  and  he  did  so.  He  talked  to  her,  and  the 
hours  passed.  Presently  he  remembered  his  own  affairs, 
and  told  her  of  what  had  happened.  It  was  doubtful 
whether  she  could  understand  him,  but  the  recital  awoke 
his  own  indignation,  and  the  nurse  in  the  next  room 
heard  him  lift  his  voice  and  shout  so  angrily  that  she 
hastened  in  to  silence  him. 

He  expressed  shame,  and  spoke  no  more.  At  midnight 
Unity  sent  down  Tiger  to  know  how  the  sufferer  fared. 
With  him  the  young  man  brought  Philip's  supper  and  a 
pint  of  beer  in  a  can;  but  Ouldsbroom  refused  to  eat 
or  drink  and  bade  the  other  carry  these  things  home 
again. 

"I'll  talk  to  you  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "This  isn't 
the  time  or  place.  And  you  can  tell  missis  to  write  off  a 
letter  to  Martin  and  post  it  to-morrow  morning.  He's 
got  to  be  at  the  funeral;  and  so  have  you;  and  so  will 
every  decent  person  in  the  neighbourhood.  And  I  be 
going  to  read  Job  over  her,  though  God  He  knows  how  I 
shall  bear  myself.    Now,  you'd  best  be  gone." 

He  returned  to  the  passing  woman  and  felt  at  work 
that  force  odylic — that  power  of  gravitation  men  call 
death.  It  was  drawing  her  back  and  drawing  her  under. 
Earth  called  out  for  this  pinch  of  dust  again,  and  Bar- 
bara yielded,  as  autumn  yields  to  winter,  twilight  to 
darkness,  matter  to  time.  Life  departed  gently  and  ten- 
derly from  her,  as  though  sad  to  go.  Philip  did  not 
know  that  she  was  dead  until  the  nurse  told  him. 

He  was  reading  aloud  from  Job,  and  had  done  so  for 
an  hour.    Then  Mrs.  Dury  bade  him  cease  and  depart. 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  281 

He  went  out  into  the  first  elfin  light  of  another  day — - 
a  trembling  blink  on  the  edge  of  dawn.  For  a  long  time 
he  roamed  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  little  shop,  then, 
as  the  morning  came  on  feathers  of  fire,  a  thought  took 
him  to  the  churchyard.  He  went  to  the  spot  long  since 
selected  by  the  dead  woman.  He  stood  there  and  looked 
down  at  the  dew-drenched  gi'ass  of  it  and  he  felt  sud- 
denly that  she  was  indeed  gone  from  him.  Anon  he 
crossed  the  burying-ground,  left  a  green  track  in  the  cob- 
web-coloured dew,  and  then  went  homeward. 

His  thoughts  next  turned  to  Tiger  and  fiercely  fas- 
tened there. 

''Only  him  now,"  he  said.  "Only  him — after  Unity 
and  Martin.  And  to  try  and  take  him  from  me!  Let 
'em  take  my  right  hand — they  shall  do  that  sooner ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XII 

On  a  drowsy  summer  day,  when  the  beech  groves  of 
Postbridge  made  murmuring  through  their  panoplies, 
and  the  cuckoo  called  with  a  broken  note,  Barbara  was 
buried.  The  stern  rite  that  she  had  directed  came  swiftly 
to  its  close,  and  Philip  uttered  over  her  a  dozen  verses 
from  Job.  Three  score  of  the  folk  attended,  and  not  a 
few  wept  when  the  small  coffin  sank  out  of  sight. 

Martin  and  his  mother  were  there,  and  Tiger  stood  be- 
side Mary  French,  who  had  come  with  her  brother  from 
Teign  Head  Farm.  Peter  Culme  was  also  present,  with 
Mrs.  Dury  and  her  family.  From  Stannon  came  Quinton 
and  Gertrude  Crymes,  with  Maggie  and  Minnie,  Jacky 
and  Jane.  Under  protest,  Mr.  Twigg  brought  his  wife 
and  unmarried  daughter.  He  listened  in  lofty  pity  and 
forgiveness  to  the  faltering  thunder  of  Ouldsbroom's 
great  voice  as  it  stumbled  over  the  prescribed  portion. 

Martin  also  gazed  with  secret  regret  upon  Philip,  and 
would  have  gladly  heard  and  seen  a  more  conventional 
ceremony.  But  the  service  ended  swiftly.  The  people 
departed,  and  at  last  only  Philip  and  the  chief  mourner 
remained  to  see  the  grave  filled. 

Miss  Hext's  heir  was  a  man  who  kept  a  small  jeweller's 
shop  at  Plymouth.  The  bulk  of  her  little  fortune  went 
to  him,  but  she  had  left  numerous  trifling  bequests,  and 
Ouldsbroom  found  himself  the  richer  by  one  hundred 
pounds,  while  Martin  and  Tiger  each  received  twenty. 

Young  Saul  Hext,  the  eldest  son  of  Barbara's  dead 
brother,  asked  Philip  some  questions,  and  invited  his 
opinion  on  the  worth  of  the  shop  at  Postbridge. 

282 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  283 

"My  business  is  nothing  of  much  account,"  he  said, 
''and  my  children  are  ailing.  D'you  think  that  this 
little  shop  would  pay  for  taking  up  and  improving?" 

"No  doubt  'twould  pay  for  taking  up,"  answered 
Ouldsbroom,  "but  as  for  improving,  'twill  want  a  better 
man  than  you  to  do  that.  This  here  priceless  creature 
under  us — she  knew  everything  there  was  to  know  worth 
knowing,  and  especially  about  the  business  of  keeping  a 
shop  of  all  sorts.  To  her  dying  day  she  was  for  ever 
thinking  upon  it  and  how  to  better  its  usefulness.  Never 
was  known  the  like ;  and  if  you  think  to  take  it  over, 
you'll  do  well  to  abide  by  her  plans  in  everything." 

"I  must  go  into  her  books." 

"And  wonderful  books  you'll  find  them.  Nothing  she 
oouldn  *t  do,  I  tell  you ;  and  you  were  a  bit  of  a  fool  not 
to  see  more  of  her,  for  she  was  a  rare  bird.  Like  brother 
and  sister — her  and  me.  That  understanding — such  a 
brain — and  such  a  heart.  I've  no  power  of  speech;  but 
if  I  had,  I  would  have  spoke  a  word  or  two  to  the  people 
and  told  'em  what  they've  lost.  Ever  doing  kindly  things 
and  ever  thinking  them.  No  power  of  unkindness  in 
her — always  for  seeing  the  bright  side  of  the  darkest 
people — always  for  making  excuses.  Only  one  thing 
roused  her  hate;  and  that  was  humbug  and  falsehood. 
Afore  them  her  eyes  would  flash  and  her  tongue  would 
scourge.  She  looked  through  and  through  human  nature, 
I  tell  you.  She  was  like  me — patient  with  the  fools.  She 
taught  me  patience,  and  I  must  be  patient  now  she's 
gone ;  but— oh,  how  I  shall  miss  her,  young  man  !  Cruel 
— cruel  I  shall  miss  her.  From  her  heart  came  every- 
thing; but  she'd  never  let  it  out  till  the  thought  had 
filtered  through  her  head.  That  was  her  rare  wisdom. 
A  very  learned  woman,  mind  you.  Schoolmaster  was 
dust  afore  her,  and  he  knew  it.  '  'Tis  all  true  what  she 
tells,'  he  said  to  me  once.  '  'Tis  all  too  true,  farmer; 
but  I  dursn't  listen  to  her,  because  my  daily  bread  de- 
pends upon  my  teaching  the  children  different.'  These 
here  schoolmasters  and  mistresses,  you  must  know,  have 
to  walk  in  chains — so  Barbara  said.  They've  got  to  re- 
member the  parents'  eyes  and  the  parson's  eyes  and  the 


284  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

squire's  eyes  all  be  upon  'em.  That's  what  Barbara  was 
down  on.  And  I  hope  you're  the  same.  And  now  'tis 
done. ' ' 

He  referred  to  the  filling  of  the  grave. 

"You'll  set  a  brave  stone  here  presently,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"Yes,  I  certainly  shall,"  said  Mr.  Hext.  "She  was 
the  right  sort,  and  I  hope  I'll  show  you  I'm  the  same,  if 
I  come  to  these  parts." 

"Better  walk  up  the  hill  and  have  a  drink  along  with 
me  then.  I  was  her  first  friend  here.  Us '11  go  to  the 
'  Warren  House, '  and  I  '11  show  you  the  sort  of  man  your 
aunt  couldn't  abide  at  any  cost.  He  was  at  the  funeral, 
and  he  looked  at  me  as  if  he  was  praying  to  his  withered 
God  to  forgive  me.  I  dare  say  he  Avas.  Gregory  Twigg. 
I  mean — innkeeper  and  preacher  and  Little  Baptist — a 
very  sleek,  w^ell-meaning  man,  but  getting  old  now ;  lives 
on  his  own  fat,  like  a  dormouse,  and  drips  piety." 

They  walked  up  Merripit  Hill  and  presently  reached 
the  inn. 

A  brisk  conversation  stopped  suddenly  as  Philip  en- 
tered with  the  dead  woman's  nephew. 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "D'you  mark  that — as  if  they  was 
all  struck  dumb?  They  was  talking  of  Barbara  Hext, 
and  Gregory  was  telling  'em  she've  gone  to  the  bad  place. 
Wasn't  you,  Greg?  Out  wi^h  it — you  that  always  boast 
to  tell  the  naked  truth." 

"Shows  how  little  you  understand  us,  Ouldsbroom," 
answered  Gregory,  passing  his  hand  over  his  bald  head. 
' '  I  was  saying  that  the  prayer  of  a  righteous  man  availeth 
much.  I  was  explaining  to  Culme  here,  and  these  other 
neighbours,  that  for  my  part — though  many  think  'tis 
a  parlous  doctrine — I  don't  see  W'hy  that  text  should  run 
out  and  finish  at  the  grave.  Our  pastor,  Bewes,  he  says 
that  'tis  flat  popish  idolatry  to  think  otherwise;  but  I 
withstand  him  there." 

"To  pray  for  the  dead  be  one  step  more  foolish  than 
to  pray  for  the  living,"  said  Saul  Hext,  and  Gregory 
shook  his  head.  But  Philip  clapped  the  young  man  on 
the  back. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  285 

"You're  the  joker  for  me !"  he  cried.  "It  might  have 
been  your  aunt  said  that." 

They  drank,  and  entered  upon  a  barren  discussion 
wherein  none  convinced  another.  The  debate  only  bright- 
ened at  the  finish. 

Mr.  Hext  proved  a  dry  and  humorous  thinker. 

"I'm  a  watchmaker/'  he  said,  "so,  in  a  sort  of  way, 
I've  the  right  to  speak;  and  what  I  say  is  that  if  God 
made  us  in  His  own  image  outside,  'tis  a  thousand  pities 
and  a  great  oversight  that  He  didn  't  make  us  in  His  own 
image  inside  too.  God's  the  only  machine  I  ever  heard 
tell  about  that  can't  go  wrong,  and  He  ought  to  have 
built  us  on  the  same  pattern,  in  my  opinion.  And  why 
not?" 

"I'll  tell  you  for  why,"  answered  Philip.  "  'Twas 
just  His  sporting  kindness.  He  knoweth,  and  none  so 
well  as  Him,  how  deadly  dull  a  thing  it  is  to  be  perfect. 
Look  at  Twigg  here,  if  you  doubt  me.  And  so  God  gives 
us  all  the  chance  to  get  off  the  rails  a  bit,  just  to  add  a 
pinch  of  salt  to  life." 

"And  most  people  jump  at  the  chance,"  said  Peter 
Culme  mournfully. 

"Even  God  Almighty  on  His  throne  must  have  His 
holy  work,"  declared  Gregory,  "and  ban't  His  work 
regulating  our  wicked  hearts,  like  this  man's  work  is 
regulating  clocks?  Some  of  us  be  too  slow  in  righteous- 
ness, and  others  of  us  be  too  fast  in  sin.  And  there  it 
is — God's  work  be  never  done,  so  long  as  a  human 
creature's  left  wandering  in  this  vale." 

"The  better  a  man  is,  the  duller  he  is,"  said  Philip; 
"and  a  real,  right  down  good  man  be  the  dullest  sheep 
you'll  meet  with  in  any  fold.  I'd  sooner  go  with  the 
gipsies,  or  herd  along  with  the  grey  boys  to  Princetown 
prison,  than  keep  in  step  with  your  Little  Baptists." 

"Have  you  ever  thought  upon  where  you'll  go  when 
you  die,  Philip  ? ' '  inquired  Mr.  Twigg. 

"No,  Greg;  but  I  shall  meet  a  good  rally  of  friends 
there — wherever  it  is." 

Hext  and  the  farmer  left  the  bar,  and  Ouldsbroom 
relapsed  into  melancholy. 


286  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

"God  forgive  me — laughing  and  chattering  with  they 
fools,"  he  said.  "To  think  I  could  do  it;  and  her  but 
now  sunk  back  into  the  earth." 

'  *  She  'd  sooner  you  laughed  than  pulled  a  long  face, ' ' 
answered  the  other.  "She  hated  even  a  child's  tears. 
A  very  understanding  woman,  and  left  the  world  better 
than  she  found  it,  in  my  opinion. ' ' 

"She  did — she  did — if  ever  woman  did.  And  I'm 
mighty  sorry  I  didn  't  know  your  parts  sooner, ' '  answered 
the  farmer.  "For  if  I  had  done  so,  I'd  have  called  upon 
you  to  say  a  few  words  afore  the  earth  closed  over  her. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  RARE  day  of  ineffable  splendour  crowned  Dartmoor, 
and  to  the  seeing  eye,  even  upon  this  desert,  was  dis- 
played a  vision  wonderful — a  dream  of  life  mating  with 
matter,  of  the  protoplasmic  element  flying,  swimming, 
growing,  ripening,  multiplying,  and  displaying  its 
eternal  miracle  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sun-supported 
earth.  The  colour  was  of  a  cloudless  noon  in  August: 
the  forms  were  familiar  hill  and  stone-capped  tor,  broad 
marsh  and  glittering  stream,  roaming  herds  and  floclvS 
scattered  widely  upon  the  undulating  land.  The  earth 
and  the  fulness  of  it  rolled  out  glorious,  ridge  on  ridge, 
to  the  transparent  blue  of  the  horizon ;  and  not  an  inch, 
not  a  morsel,  of  these  ascending  planes  and  shining  slopes 
but  made  a  home  for  life  and  theatre  of  war.  J^ons 
have  brought  this  scene  to  its  present  polity ;  unnumbered 
years  have  gone  to  order  its  present  precarious  adjust- 
ment. To  the  fleeting  eye  it  appears  changeless,  yet 
hourly  it  changes,  and  will  change  hourly  so  long  as  it 
exists.  No  permanent  peace  is  here;  not  even  a  tem- 
porary truce  shall  ever  be  proclaimed;  fierce  battle  rages 
at  all  points  and  for  ever  under  this  apparent  concord. 
Death's  M^arp  it  is  that  threads  each  woof  and  completes 
the  web,  for  full  half  this  far-flung  glory  is  founded  in 
disintegration  and  decay;  full  half  this  gi-and  harmony 
is  rioting  and  rooting  in  blood  of  perished  things. 

Martin  Ouldsbroom  and  Tiger  stood  upon  a  great  hill 
and  rested  after  climbing  it.  The  latter  saw  no  more 
than  a  sunny  day,  felt  only  the  heat;  the  former  ex- 
perienced a  little  of  what  such  an  hour  might  mean  to  a 
young  and  thoughtful  heart. 

He  looked  about  him,  renewed  friendship  with  the  hills, 

287 


288  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

and  smiled  at  the  immense  world  unrolled  beneath  his 
feet;  while  the  other  youth  puffed  and  wiped  a  wet  face 
and  neck. 

"  'Tis  on  a  day  and  in  a  place  like  this  that  one  can 
feel  the  weight  of  some  words,"  said  Martin.  ''Take 
these:  'We  bless  Thee  for  our  creation.'  Don't  they 
mean  a  lot,  lifted  up  here  like  this  in  the  sun  ? ' ' 

' '  I  wish  I  was  such  a  dry  man  as  you, ' '  answered  Tiger. 
' '  You  haven 't  turned  a  hair  seemingly.  This  is  Fur  Tor, 
and  I  be  going  to  have  a  drink  and  a  pipe  afore  I  travel 
a  yard  beyond  it. ' ' 

' '  There 's  no  need  to  go  farther.  'Tis  somewhere  about 
here  that  the  plant  grows.  My  schoolmaster  saw  it  in 
a  book.  He's  a  great  botanist,  as  I  told  you,  and  he 
explained  that  in  time  past  a  sort  of  bilberry  was  used 
to  grow  here — the  only  place  on  Dartmoor  where  it  does 
grow.  'Tis  easily  marked  if  seen,  because  its  fruit  is 
red  instead  of  black,  and  its  leaves  are  like  to  a  box  plant. 
I  'm  hopeful  to  find  it  for  him  and  fetch  back  a  good  root 
or  two  for  his  garden. ' ' 

"I'll  help  presently,"  promised  Tiger;  "but  not  afore 
I've  cooled  down  and  drunk  my  tin  of  cider." 

Martin  had  begged  for  his  friend 's  company,  and  Tiger 
made  holiday  with  his  future  master.  The  question  of 
liis  departure  was  for  the  moment  in  abeyance.  Philip 
suffered  much  from  the  loss  of  Barbara  Hext,  and  Unity, 
judging  that  this  was  no  time  to  bring  further  trouble 
upon  him,  held  her  peace.  She  had  not  spoken  again 
of  that  matter  to  the  younger  man,  and  did  not  design 
to  do  so  until  Martin  was  back  at  school  again. 

Now  Martin  hunted  over  the  wild  shoulders  of  Fur  Tor 
and  stopped  twice  to  survey  the  scene  spread  round 
about  him.  Infant  Tavy  glittered  to  the  west,  and  sud- 
denly, turning  his  eyes  therefrom  back  to  the  shattered 
granite  by  his  way,  he  found  what  he  was  seeking  and 
marked  the  Mount  Ida  Avhortleberry  gemmed  with  scarlet 
fruits. 

He  shouted  to  Tiger,  who  joined  him. 

Neither  had  seen  the  plant  before.  They  dug  up  some 
clumps  of  the  little  shrub  and  tasted  the  berries. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  289 

' '  I  shall  go  over  to  Bovey  with  them, ' '  declared  Martin. 
"The  chief's  away  on  his  holiday,  and  I  shall  plant  the 
things  very  carefully  and  well,  and  'twill  be  a  great  and 
glad  surprise  to  him  when  he  comes  back,  to  find  them 
there." 

They  ate  their  lunch  and  spoke  of  personal  interests. 
Their  friendship  was  still  close,  despite  their  opposite 
natures.  Tiger  admired  Martin's  cleverness;  the  other 
valued  him  for  his  kind  heart  and  good  temper.  He  also 
believed  that  Tiger  was  of  service  to  Philip.  Yet  shadows 
were  growing  on  Martin 's  mind,  and  much  that  the  elder 
youth  said  both  hurt  and  angered  him  in  secret.  With 
his  actions  he  could  not  cavil ;  but  his  opinions,  gleaned 
from  Philip  Ouldsbroom,  sometimes  struck  at  what  was 
very  precious  and  vital  to  Martin.  This  happened  now, 
and  Tiger  spoke  of  Miss  Hext's  funeral  with  approba- 
tion, 

"  A  lot  better  than  the  usual  way, ' '  he  declared.  ' '  Jolly 
fine,  I  called  it;  and  if  I  was  going  to  be  buried,  I'd  like 
nought  better  than  to  be  treated  the  same. ' ' 

"If  you  was  to  read  the  proper  burial  service  you'd 
think  differently,"  answered  Martin.  "There's  a  right 
and  a  wrong  way  of  doing  everything,  and  after  hun- 
dreds of  years  and  the  thought  of  many  wise  and  re- 
ligious men,  it  isn't  likely  that  common,  everyday  people 
can  make  a  better  thing  than  the  prayer-book  service. 
I  'd  be  very  glad  if  you  'd  read  it. ' ' 

"She  wasn't  church,  nor  yet  chapel.  She  always  stuck 
up  for  Job;  and  so  does  your  father.  He  often  asks 
me  to  read  it  out  to  him  of  an  evening  after  supper,  for 
he  can't  see  by  candle-light  very  well  now." 

* '  I  don 't  say  anything  against  Job ;  but  I  'm  all  for 
law  and  order;  and  we  oughtn't  to  take  a  solemn  matter 
like  the  burial  of  the  dead  into  our  own  hands." 

'  *  'Twas  her  wish,  and  she  left  you  twenty  pound  any- 
way. ' ' 

They  talked  and  ate.  Then  Martin  began  a  long  cate- 
chism on  the  subject  of  his  father. 

"Though  I've  been  home  a  fortnight,  I've  had  no 
chance  to  ask  about  him,"  he  explained.     "But  now  I 

19 


290  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

can.  I  do  hope  you've  got  good  news  for  me,  Tiger. 
He  seems  a  bit  short  and  abrupt  to  mother  since  I  came 
home;  and  he  goes  about  alone  more  than  usual, 
too." 

"  'Tis  because  of  Miss  Hext's  death.  He  was  terrible 
fond  of  her  and  spent  a  lot  of  time  with  her. ' ' 

' '  But  I  can 't  see  why  he  should  be  short  to  mother. ' ' 

"  'Tis  the  sense  of  loss  on  his  mind.  He's  short  to 
everybody,  for  that  matter.  'Twill  soon  come  right 
when  the  sad  thing  be  pushed  farther  back  into  his 
memory. ' ' 

"If  anything,  it  ought  to  be  the  other  way.  Only  my 
mother  has  such  a  wonderful  steady  temper.  Nothing 
ever  makes  her  hot." 

' '  Like  you.  But  how  do  you  mean  that  it  ought  to  be 
t'other  way?" 

"I  mean  that  my  father  has  done  a  good  bit  more  to 
vex  her  than  she  has  to  vex  him.  Not  intentionally, 
Tiger.  I  don 't  mean  that — very  far  from  it.  He  always 
means  well  to  everybody.  But  he  dashes  at  things  so, 
and  doesn't  look  all  round  a  bargain  or  a  sale  before  he 
closes. ' ' 

"  'Tis  his  long  experience.  He's  no  need  to  take  so 
much  time  as  other  men.    He's  got  it  all  in  his  head. ' ' 

"Yes — all  the  past;  but  he's  slow  at  making  room 
for  new  ideas.  Even  I  see  that.  If  the  world  was  run 
like  it  was  when  he  was  a  young  man,  all  would  go  well, 
I  dare  say;  but  you're  young,  like  me,  and  you  must 
know.  Tiger,  that  we've  got  to  change.  Farming  isn't 
what  it  was  at  best;  and  if  you  won't  take  up  with  the 
latest  improvements  and  ideas,  you  get  left  behind." 

"He's  not  like  that.  He's  a  very  inquiring  man.  He 
goes  to  all  the  shows  and  sees  all  the  new  things. ' ' 

"He  sees  them — yes.  But  he's  been  rather  unfor- 
tunate of  late.  My  mother  was  telling  me  about  it.  Of 
course  father  didn't.  The  new  sheep  weren't  what  be 
thought. ' ' 

"A  man  lied  to  him  at  Okehampton  cattle  show." 

"But  father  ought  to  have  known  better." 

"  'Twas  late  and  far  on  in  the  day,  and " 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  291 

Tiger  stopped. 

"And  he  was  fresh.  You  may  as  well  say  it.  Of 
course  he  must  have  been,  or  else  he'd  have  seen  they 
weren't  Dartmoors  crossed  with  South  Hams." 

''Yes,  they  were;  but  just  happened  to  be  a  poor  lot." 

"There  are  other  things.  He  seems  not  to  take 
mother's  advice  like  he  did." 

"I'm  sure  he  does  then.  He's  a  reed  without  her.  I 
never  knowed  another  man  so  terrible  fond  of  his  wife. 
I'm  like  that  too.  I  shall  be  just  so  fond  of  my  Mary 
when  I'm  sixty  year  old  as  master  is  of  missis.  I'm  no 
more  than  a  copy  of  master.  And  I  was  proud  when  a 
man  told  me  so.  And  as  for  your  mother,  why,  when  she 
travels,  if  'tis  only  for  a  day  to  Moreton  or  Princetown, 
he's  glum  as  a  raven  without  her — misses  her  something 
cruel;  and  when  she  went  for  four  days  to  her  relations 
at  Exeter,  the  man  couldn  't  suffer  it — not  after  the  third 
day ;  so  he  went  up  after  her  and  fetched  her  back  home, ' ' 

Martin  continued  his  questions.  He  was  civil,  even 
filial ;  but  he  was  remorseless.  Tiger  writhed  under  the 
inquisition.  Some  points  he  evaded,  and  once  or  twice 
he  said  the  thing  that  was  not.  Even  in  his  discomfort 
he  had  time  to  marvel  that  a  son  could  stand  in  such 
stern  judgment  on  his  father. 

Upon  the  subject  of  money  Martin  spared  no  investiga- 
tion; but  over  the  question  of  drink  he  was  especially 
pitiless.  At  last,  indeed,  he  did  a  thing  that  much  as- 
tonished him  and  woke  Tiger  into  sudden  fury. 

"God  damn  it!"  shouted  out  the  elder,  "haven't  you 
got  no  heart  in  your  body?  Can  you  tear  your  own 
father  to  pieces'?  Ban't  it  for  you  that  he  strives  and 
stints?  And  if  he  makes  a  faulty  bargain  now  and 
again,  who  don't?  And,  be  it  as  'twill,  the  money's  for 
you,  not  him.  What  does  he  care  for  cash — save  for  the 
joy  of  spending  it  on  somebody  else  ?  Such  a  man  never 
was  seen,  and  he's  like  the  sun  to  the  shadow  among  all 
these  here  frosty  people,  who  go  suspicious  of  their 
neighbours  and  with  never  a  kind  word  for  a  fellow- 
creature.  Why  to  God  don't  you  see  his  vartues,  and 
copy  'em,  instead  of  always  being  down  on  his  faults? 


292  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

I  tell  you  the  very  faults  of  such  a  man  be  vartues 
against  the  mean  and  crooked  spirit  of  most  of  us. 
Granted  he  drinks.  Does  he  ever  drink  as  much  as  he 
pays  for  others  to  drink  ?  Does  he  ever  think  again  of  the 
good  he  does,  or  expect  to  get  it  back  in  his  turn  1  Does  he 
ever  remember  all  the  little  deeds  to  make  this  child 
happier  or  this  woman  easier  in  her  mind  ?  No !  Never. 
He  don't  take  no  more  accoimt  of  his  quick,  generous 
acts  than  the  summer  sun  of  the  Avork  it's  doing.  And 
if  such  things  can  be  overlooked  and  forgot  by  all  others 
as  well  as  himself,  then  damn  all  the  men  and  women — 
that's  what  I  say.    He's  too  good  for  'em!" 

''I  know  all  that,  Tiger." 

"Then  why  don't  you  remember  it?  Why  must  you 
for  ever  be  looking  at  the  other  side  ?  That  man 's  never 
hurt  anybody  but  himself — not  since  I've  had  the  under- 
standing to  know  him." 

"But  he  does  hurt  himself.  That's  the  point.  And 
'tis  for  us,  who  care  about  him,  to  stop  him  hurting  him- 
self. I  don't  ask  these  things  for  pleasure,  but  for  duty. 
I  want  to  do  my  duty  to  my  father,  just  as  much  as  you 
do.  You've  kept  him  out  of  many  a  public-house  and 
been  useful  to  him.  I  only  want  to  know  all  about  his 
weak  places,  so  as  to  help  him  to  make  the  weak  places 
stronger.  He's  been  a  good  father  to  me — according  to 
his  lights — and  why  shouldn't  I  want  to  be  a  good  son 
to  him?" 

"Can't  you  be  a  good  son  without  judging  him  then? 
I  hate  and  loathe  to  hear  you  sigh  over  it — as  if  you  was 
a  schoolmaster  hearing  tell  of  a  naughty  boy.  I  know 
drink's  bad  for  him,  and  I  know  it  makes  him  quarrel- 
some and  breeds  enemies  for  him;  but  I  say  that  when 
he's  sober,  no  decent  man  can  be  his  enemy.  You  mag- 
nify what's  wrong  in  him. 

"No,  Tiger,  I  don't.  I  see  it  in  its  proper  light,  and 
I  see  the  danger  to  us  all.  'Tis  the  danger  that  you  can't 
see.  You  don't  look  ahead  like  I  do.  And  well  may  I 
sigh  when  you  tell  me  he's  not  better.  If  he's  not  better 
— then  he's  worse.  There's  no  standing  still  with  father. 
He  mav  be  large-hearted — though  you  ought  to  be  just 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  293 

before  you  are  generous — but  he 's  very  narrow-minded ; 
and  since  I  've  been  educated  I  see  that  more  and  more. ' ' 

"He's  not — he's  not,  I  tell  you!  And  if  he  M^as,  did 
he  put  you  to  school  to  larn  you  how  to  see  his  faults? 
Is  that  what  your  folk  teach  you?  If  he'd  sent  me  to 
school,  and  the  people  had  told  me  my  father  was  this 
and  that,  I'd  mighty  soon  have  made  trouble." 

]\Iartin  perceived  the  hopelessness  of  explaining  his 
standpoint. 

"We  won't  fall  out.  Tiger.  I  know  what  you  mean, 
and  I  wish  you  could  see  what  I  mean.  But  I'll  try  to 
show  you  when  my  schooling  is  done.  I  come  home  for 
good  and  all  after  next  term.  And  I  shall  be  sorry  to 
leave,  and  yet  glad — very  glad  to  be  back.  I  love  my 
father  in  my  own  way.  I  'm  disappointed  that  you  can 't 
see  my  side.  What  more  natural  than  that  I  want  to 
be  of  use  to  him  ?  What  more  natural  than  that  I  want 
him  to  learn  some  of  the  things  he's  paid  for  me  to 
learn?  But  it's  so  difficult,  and  I  look  to  you  to  make  it 
less  difficult.  You  oughtn't  to  side  against  me — espe- 
cially where  you  know  I  'm  right  and  father  is  wrong. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  you'm  right,"  answered  Tiger  obsti- 
nately. 

"Yes,  you  do.  I  mean  to  do  what's  right,  and  I  want 
to  find  the  way  to  show  him  I  do.  Take  farming.  Half 
my  time  at  school  goes  into  that  now,  because  it  is  going 
to  be  my  business.  I'm  coming  back  full  of  work.  I 
want  to  lift  a  lot  off  father's  shoulders.  But  you  know 
how  hard  it  is.  You  know  if  I  say  such  and  such  a  thing 
is  done  differently  now;  or  if  I  mention  this  or  that  new 
way  of  doing  things  down  in  the  in  country — what  good 
is  it?  He  always  laughs  at  the  'in  country'  and  says 
no  sense  can  come  out  of  it.  But  you  know  I'm  right 
in  many  things." 

"I  do,"  admitted  Tiger.  "I'm  not  saying  you  are 
not;  and  I've  argued  with  him  too.  He's  a  great  deal 
gentler  about  knowledge  than  he  was.  He  well  knows 
your  cleverness,  and  he  well  knows  that  the  world  doesn  't 
stand  still.  He's  not  narrow-minded  really — far  from  it. 
Anybody  can  get  him  to  see  sense,  if  they  only  go  the 


294  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

right  way  about  it.  I've  preached  you  to  him  many  a 
time,  and  more  than  once  things  you've  said  and  he's 
refused  for  the  moment,  he's  done  after,  when  I've  re- 
minded him  about  them." 

This  cheered  Martin. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  that,"  he  said.  "Don't  think 
I'm  jealous  of  your  power  over  him,  because  I'm  not. 
I'm  getting  on  very  well  with  him  too — so  far — these 
holidays.  I'm  working  more  than  I  used  to  do,  and 
he  much  likes  to  see  me  at  it.  But  'tis  very  natural  that 
he  should  put  you  before  me.  I'm  not  hurt  about  that. 
You've  the  knack  to  get  at  him  far  better  than  I  can. 
And  I  want  you  to  teach  me  how  to  do  the  same. ' ' 

The  genial  Tiger  instantly  came  to  his  knees  at  this 
gentle  speech. 

"Forgive  me  for  speaking  coarse,  and  swearing,"  he 
answered.  "  'Twas  very  unmannerly  in  me,  and  I'm 
awful  sorry  I  did  it.  'Tis  only  because  I  see  such  a  lot 
of  your  father  that  I  've  got  his  ear  a  bit.  But  I  'm  nought 
to  him  really,  and  you  mustn't  think  so,  or  fear  so.  I 
shan't  be  here  much  longer  myself." 

' '  He  would  never  let  you  go. ' ' 

'  *  Don 't  say  nothing  about  it,  Martin.  But,  taking  one 
thing  with  another,  it  might  be  better.  He's  amazing 
kind,  and  too  prone  to  think  that  them  he  likes  are  far 
better  than  they  be,  and  them  he  don 't  like  are  far  worse. 
I  '11  speak  more  about  that  another  time.  But  I  've  heard 
some  wisdom  on  the  subject  from  your  mother,  and  she 
don't  waste  words  or  tell  a  chap  what  it  isn't  useful  to 
him  to  hear.  We  had  speech  about  my  going  just  before 
Miss  Hext  died,  and  then,  owing  to  her  sudden  end,  the 
matter  dropped.  But  I  haven't  forgot  what  missis  said. 
My  girl  mentioned  it  to  Mr.  Ouldsbroom  and  there  was 
a  bit  of  a  flare-up  in  consequence.  But,  as  I  tell  you, 
I  haven't  forgot  it  and  shall  do  what  I  ought  pres- 
ently." 

"This  is  the  first  I've  heard  of  any  such  thing,"  an- 
swered Matrin.  "And  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  will  do  noth- 
ing at  all.  Tiger.    Just  think  what  father " 

"Leave  it,"  interrupted  the  other.     "Whatever  you 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE       '•  295 

may  think  of  the  governor,  there 's  no  two  opinions  about 
your  mother.  She's  wisdom  alive — and  kindness  alive 
too — I  will  say  that.  Shut  up  about  it,  Master  ]\Iartin, 
please,  and  trust  her  to  know  better  than  you  or  me. ' ' 

Martin,  wondering  what  this  could  mean,  kept  silence ; 
and  when  they  spoke  again  it  was  upon  another  topic. 

At  the  earliest  opportunity,  however.  Unity's  son  asked 
her  for  information.  She  showed  no  small  interest  that 
he  had  learned  the  thing  in  Tiger's  mind;  but  she  would 
not  discuss  the  matter  at  that  time. 

'  *  There  was  trouble, ' '  she  said ;  ' '  and  then  came  a 
greater  in  the  shape  of  Barbara's  death.  That  put  it 
out  of  your  father's  head  altogether,  and  'tis  far  too 
soon  to  bring  it  back  again.  Leave  it  alone.  Tiger 
knows  all  there  is  to  know.  He'll  do  the  right  thing 
presently. ' ' 

Martin  showed  concern  and  asked  many  questions,  but 
his  mother  bade  him  leave  the  problem  for  the  present. 

"All's  going  well,"  she  said,  "and  father's  getting 
back  his  spirits.  That's  the  first  thing.  You  and  him 
be  closer  friends,  seemingly.  And  nought 's  ill  if  that  but 
lasts." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Martin's  conduct  at  this  season  satisfied  Philip  Oulds- 
broom.  The  boy  understood  a  little  of  the  man's  recent 
loss,  and  followed  his  mother  in  respecting  it.  He 
showed  very  active  interest  upon  the  farm,  and  revealed 
an  intimacy  with  those  crafts  that  the  wear-and-tear  of 
Hartland  put  into  constant  requirement.  He  displayed 
some  skill  as  a  carpenter,  and  prepared  a  surprise  or  two 
for  the  farmer  which  gave  Philip  immense  pleasure. 

Together  they  went  on  a  serious  pilgrimage  round  and 
about  the  property,  and  the  perambulation  was  a  success. 
Very  slowly  the  elder  began  to  yield  in  certain  particu- 
lars. The  process  was  so  gradual  that  neither  man  nor 
youth  could  be  declared  conscious  of  it;  but  another 
marked  the  dawning  influence  of  Martin,  and  was  glad. 
Will-power  exercised  without  deliberate  design  must 
prove  more  pregnant  than  any  intentional  invasion  of 
one  mind  by  another ;  and  Martin,  as  he  came  to  man 's 
estate,  developed  a  nature  calculated  to  influence  those 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact.  As  yet  he  was  a  boy, 
and  life  had  not  strung  his  character  to  its  ultimate 
strenuous,  cheerless,  and  austere  attainment.  A  little  of 
the  suavity,  a  little  of  the  indecision,  a  little  of  the  help- 
lessness of  youth  still  clung  about  him.  But  his  didactic 
instincts  developed.  He  went  to  his  mother,  indeed,  to 
learn,  and  her  judgment  and  certitude  in  all  things  he 
accepted  with  no  question.  A  bond  of  absolute  sympathy 
obtained  between  them — a  link  beyond  life's  power  to 
break;  but  none  else  stood  in  any  such  relation  to  him. 
He  had  worked  very  hard  at  school,  and  was  keenly 
awake  to  the  advantages  of  his  education  and  the 
position  it  enabled  him  to  occupy.     He  loved  teaching. 

296 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  297 

and  while  he  went  to  his  mother  to  learn,  the  ruling  pas- 
sion appeared  in  his  dealings  with  all  others.  Experience 
had  taught  him  to  restrain  this  impulse  in  the  company 
of  Ouldsbroom ;  but  with  nobody  else  would  he  submit  to 
conceal  his  own  attainments.  Nobody  else,  indeed,  de- 
sired him  to  do  so.  He  was  a  welcome  guest  at  Stannon, 
and  Gertrude  Crymes  drew  satisfaction  from  his  youth- 
ful wisdom.  To  IMinnie  he  was  life.  Sammy,  the  only 
spirit  in  that  home  who  never  could  endure  him,  had  now 
gone  to  sea,  and  an  atmosphere  of  simple  piety  brooded 
unbroken  at  Stannon.  This  pleased  Martin  well;  and 
other  friends  always  welcomed  him  at  'Warren  House.' 
Mr-.  Twigg  was  now  grown  very  corpulent,  and  his  health 
had  become  indifferent.  He  flourished  unchanged  in 
all  other  respects,  and  accepted  his  somewhat  harassing 
private  circumstances  as  put  upon  him  for  secret  but 
beneficent  purposes  by  the  God  he  served.  To  Martin 
the  publican  appeared  a  very  wise,  religious,  and  improv- 
ing person.  He  reaped  satisfaction  from  their  inter- 
course, and,  in  his  turn,  led  Gregory  to  prophesy  for  him 
a  future  of  wide  usefulness  on  the  side  of  the  angels. 

"It  is  borne  in  upon  me,"  declared  the  elder,  "that 
you  have  been  sent  into  our  midst  to  do  a  good  work 
here,  Martin.  I  have  been  the  Lord's  willing  tool  for 
fifty  years — indeed,  you  might  say  for  much  longer  than 
that.  They  catched  me  giving  a  halfpenny  to  a  beggar 
not  more'n  a  year  after  I  was  short-coated.  Not  that  I 
would  do  so  now,  because  too  well  I  know  that  charity 
breeds  a  multitude  of  sins  as  well  as  covers  'em.  But 
there  was  the  Spirit  already  stretching  out  of  me  to  help 
my  fellow-man,  and  you  can 't  blame  an  infant,  only  just 
able  to  walk,  for  not  being  up  in  the  truth  about  pro- 
miscuous alms.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  my  active  useful- 
ness must  soon  be  a  thing  of  the  past.  My  great  intellects 
will  still  be  at  the  service  of  my  Maker,  so  long  as  He  is 
pleased  to  want  'em ;  but  for  His  own  ends  He 's  built  up 
the  flesh  on  me  in  a  way  that  much  limits  my  powers  of 
running  on  His  errands  as  I  was  used  to  do.  And  I'm 
very  much  inclined  to  think  that  He  may  have  His  eye 
on  you,  ISIartin,  to  continue  the  good  work. ' ' 


298  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

The  boy  flushed  with  pleasure. 

' '  I  want  to  do  His  work,  and  no  other,  Mr.  Twigg. ' ' 

"You're  young  yet,  and  it  isn't  given  us  all  to  have 
what  I  had.  Elisha  was  never  a  patch  on  Elijah,  in  my 
opinion ;  but,  nevertheless,  he  had  the  mantle.  And  a 
very  good,  earnest  man  too,  though  we  may  say  that  he 
never  had  himself  quite  so  well  in  hand  as  the  other 
prophet. ' ' 

"The  bears  and  the  children,"  suggested  Martin. 

' '  Just  so ;  they  bears  was  a  very  harsh  answer  to  a  lot 
of  naughty  little  creatures — just  let  out  of  school  and 
full  of  spirits,  no  doubt.  I've  often  put  the  case  to  my- 
self, and  I'm  bound  to  say  that  if  I  was  going  through 
Postbridge  and  the  childer  mocked  my  bald  head — and 
balder  than  me  Elisha  could  not  have  been— why,  to  call 
forth  bears?  No,  no.  I  should  go  among  'era  and  talk 
to  'em  and  reason  with  their  unfledged  minds  and  make 
'em  say  they  was  sorry." 

They  debated  this  nice  point,  and  decided,  with  the 
deepest  deference,  against  Elisha. 

"As  I  grow  older,"  continued  Gregory,  "the  light 
from  the  Throne  of  Grace,  that  has  always  beat  so  fierce 
upon  me  and  showed  me  the  narrow  path,  gets  mellower, 
you  must  know.  'Tis  often  to  be  marked  with  the  great 
minds  that,  as  age  creeps  over  'em,  they  get  just  a  thought 
more  trustful  of  their  fellow-men  and  a  thought  more 
hopeful  that  the  mercy  of  the  watching  Lord  can  reach 
the  publicans  and  sinners." 

"For  certain,  Mr.  Twigg." 

"Yes.  Just  you  listen  to  me;  don't  you  talk.  Now, 
like  Paul  afore  me,  there  comed  a  very  great  light  upon 
my  mind  not  a  month  ago.  I  was  awake  by  night  puz- 
zling how  to  bring  in  they  people  at  Dury  Farm.  To 
bring  'em  into  the  Little  Baptists,  of  course,  I  mean. 
They're  newcomers,  and  they  are  hovering  in  two  minds 
between  us  and  the  Establishment.  And  firstly  my 
thoughts  ran  into  a  channel  of  great  dislike  against  the 
Church.  Then  flashed  upon  me  the  saying  of  the  Lord : 
'Other  sheep  I  have  which  are  not  of  this  fold.'  What 
could  be  clearer?     He  meant  the  Establishment!     He's 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  299 

there  too,  Martin!  He's  there  too!  In  fact,  the  puzzle 
is,  not  so  much  to  say  where  He  is,  as  where  He  isn  't. ' ' 

"Mother  and  I  are  Church  of  England,"  said  Martin. 

' '  I  know,  I  know — at  present.  But  remember  that  she 
was  a  Little  Baptist  once,  and  she  may  be  again.  And 
if  I  lived  to  get  her  and  you  back  to  us,  I  should  feel  very 
much  inclined  to  say  to  myself  '  Well  done,  thou  good  and 
faithful  servant.  Enter  thou  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord.' 
Especially  if  you  go  on  as  you  are  going  at  present.  But 
the  point  I'm  talking  about  for  the  moment  is  my  mel- 
lowing opinions.  Of  course  in  some  men  there  might  be 
a  danger  of  going  too  far ;  but  not  in  me.  Commonsense 
comes  into  it,  and  I've  always  carried  my  commonsense 
into  the  House  of  God,  and  always  shall  do — very  dif- 
ferent from  so  many  among  us,  who  take  it  off  and  put 
it  aside  with  their  hats  till  they  come  out  again." 

' '  You  can 't  let  in  everybody  to  Grace  ? ' '  doubted  Mar- 
tin. 

' '  Certainly  not.  Too  well  I  know  those  that  must  bide 
for  ever  outside;  and  they  call  themselves  Christians, 
too,  and  fondly  think  they  are  so,  and  will  go  on  thinking 
it  till  the  dread  day  of  awakening.  But  'tis  a  painful 
subject,  and  I  can  honestly  say  I  was  thankful  to  find 
how  many  of  my  poor  neighbours  have  a  right  to  hope. ' ' 

"I'm  often  in  a  mind  whether  I  wouldn't  sooner  be 
with  you  than  where  I  am,"  ventured  Martin.  "There's 
more  freedom ;  and  if  the  Lord  puts  it  in  a  man 's  heart 
to  get  up  and  say  the  healing  word  to  his  fellow-man,  'tis 
hard  he  can't  do  it." 

"  'Tis  wrong  he  can't  do  it,"  declared  Gregory;  "and 
the  longer  you  bide  at  church,  the  more  you'll  feel  it,  if 
it  happens  that  it  is  with  you  as  it  was  with  me.  Look 
at  the  scores  and  scores  of  messages  I  had  for  other  peo- 
ple! In  my  early  middle  age,  never  a  day  dawned  but 
it  come  to  my  pillow  with  a  light  to  lighten  the  Gentiles. 
And  was  I  to  be  dumb  just  because  I  wasn't  a  paid  min- 
ister? Never!  You'll  come  back  to  us,  Martin — if  ever 
I  knew  anything,  I  know  that.  Yes,  and  your  mother 
too.  She've  taken  our  teaching  into  her  life,  and  see 
what  it's  made  of  her.    In  common  gratitude  she  ought 


300  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

to  come  back,  as  I've  alwaj^s  told  her,  and  always  shall 
do." 

' '  I  don 't  think  she  'd  much  mind  if  I  was  wishful  to. ' ' 

' '  Well,  come — the  sooner  the  better.  And  in  the  mean- 
time your  work  is  to  your  hand.  I  mean  your  father. 
That's  the  first  call  of  the  Spirit  on  you;  and  if  you 
can  save  that  stubborn  soul,  then  we've  a  right  to  hope 
for  a  great  deal  from  you." 

Martin  nodded. 

"  'Tis  what  I  want  to  do  more  than  anything  else  in 
the  world,"  he  declared. 

His  last  school  holiday  drew  to  a  close,  and  only  one 
more  term  remained.  The  weeks  passed  swiftly  by,  and 
Martin's  ripening  judgment  was  able  to  evade  much  of 
the  friction  of  the  past.  Then  there  happened  a  mis- 
fortune which  clouded  many  subsequent  days. 

Philip  had  been  overreached  by  a  stranger  at  ewe  mar- 
ket, and  he  went  to  his  wife  smarting  with  the  tale.  For 
once  her  patience  failed,  and  she  protested  and  asked 
him  why  he  had  not  taken  Tiger.  Thereupon  he  turned 
suddenly  to  a  grievance  tacitly  buried  since  the  death 
of  Barbara  Hext,  and  asked  her  why  she  suggested  trust 
in  Tiger,  when  she  wished  him  away  altogether.  This 
provoked  her;  she  said  some  bitter  things,  and  quickly 
reduced  him  to  silence.  Wounded  and  indignant,  he 
went  his  way  and  came  upon  Martin  working  in  the  tool- 
shed. 

The  lad  handled  a  cold  chisel  and  Ouldsbroom  warned 
him  against  it. 

' '  Have  a  care, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  ground  it  but  three  days 
agone.     'Tis  as  sharp  as  your  mother's  tongue." 

Martin  flinched,  but  said  nothing.  Then  Philip,  in  a 
troubled  and  cloudy  mood,  called  him  away  from  his 
work  and  bade  him  walk  again  about  the  confines  of  the 
farm. 

"You'll  be  off  soon,  and  I'd  have  you  look  round,  so 
that  you  may  know  what 's  doing  and  to  do, ' '  he  said. 

Martin  put  down  his  tools  and  followed  the  farmer. 
He  was  hurt  at  the  allusion  to  Unity,  and  said  little. 
Ouldsbroom  asked  him  many  questions,  but  received  very 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  301 

short  answers  to  them.  Then  Martin  criticised  unfavour- 
ably a  piece  of  work.  This  much  angered  the  other,  and 
he  spoke  in  wrath. 

"That's  because  Tiger  done  it!  If  another  had,  you 
wouldn't  have  thought  of  the  thing  again.  'Tis  just  your 
mean  spirit  to  say  that.  A  dirty  trick  learned  from  your 
mother.  I  see  through  it;  and  if  you  knew  how  I  see 
through  everything,  you'd  not  be  pleased.  Look  at 
t'other  side — if  you  know  how  to.  Look  at  what  Tiger's 
taught  you.  You  think  you  've  got  nothing  from  him ; 
but  I  tell  you  that  you've  got  everything  that's  worth 
having  from  him.  And  the  more  you  get  from  him,  the 
better  for  your  nature  and  for  your  future. ' ' 

''I  didn't  know  this  was  his  work,  father." 

* '  Liar !  You  kneW'  it  well  enough.  And  I  '11  tell  you 
this ;  and  you  can  tell  your  mother  if  you  please  to : 
the  pair  of  you  won 't  get  him  out  of  this  place — plot  and 
scheme  as  you  like.  He's  my  man — bred  up  by  me  on 
my  own  pattern;  and  he's  all  I've  got — all  I've  got; 
d'you  understand  that?" 

He  strode  on,  and  Martin  followed. 

"Please,  father "  he  began;  but  the  other  silenced 

him. 

' '  Get  back !  Go  to  heel !  I  've  done  with  you  for  the 
present.  You've  seen  enough.  All's  ^vrong  here  in  your 
eyes.  I'm  old  and  behind  the  times.  I'm  letting  Hart- 
land  go  to  the  dogs.  I  know  nought.  I  'm  such  a  damned 
fool  that  I  can  even  pay  to  teach  my  son  to  despise  his 
father;  stint  myself  and  live  hard,  so  that  my  son  shall 
grow  clever  enough  to  despise  me!  Yes,  I'm  a  fool  all 
right.  But  you — there,  begone !  I  forgive  you — I  for- 
give you — d'you  hear  that?  I  forgive  you.  'Tis  all  my 
fault.    Everything's  my  fault." 

He  moved  rapidly  onward  and  Martin  stood  still.  This 
terrific  storm  out  a  clear  sky  staggered  him  and  left  him 
battered  and  helpless.  He  walked  away  upon  the  Moor 
by  himself ;  and  when  he  was  far  off  and  alone,  he  prayed 
about  the  matter.  Then  he  returned  home  comforted 
and  ready  to  allay  Philip's  rage  when  the  opportunity 
arose. 


302  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Unfortunately  the  day  had  worse  things  in  store  for 
Ouldsbroom.  Upon  this  unhappy  hour,  by  most  mal- 
evolent chance,  came  Tiger  with  his  warning.  He  had 
debated  long,  but  felt  that  further  delay  was  treason  to 
Unity  and  her  son.  He  could  not  appreciate  her  argu- 
ment, yet  had  wit  to  see  sense  in  it.  The  very  storm  into 
which  Philip  had  fallen  when  the  matter  came  to  him 
was  proof,  so  Tiger  thought,  that  some  ill  to  Martin  must 
happen  from  his  continued  stay.  Therefore  he  nerved 
himself  to  depart,  and  in  this  hour  declared  his  pur- 
pose. 

Philip  came  to  him  somewhat  calmer,  and  told  him  of 
the  thing  that  had  happened ;  whereupon  Tiger  laughed. 

"The  job  wasn't  done,"  he  said.  "I've  got  a  way  of 
breaking  the  heart  of  a  bit  of  work,  then  going  all  over 
it  again.  That  ground  was  set  aside  for  to-morrow  morn. 
If  you'd  looked  upon  it  after  noon  o'  Thursday,  you'd 
have  seen  a  very  different  sight. ' ' 

"And  didn't  I  know  it?" 

* '  But  here 's  a  good  time  and  chance  to  go  back  to  what 
fell  out  when  Miss  Hext  went.  I  must  go ;  yes,  I  must 
go,  master.  There's  more  reasons  than  one  that  I 
should." 

"Didn't  I  shut  your  mouth  last  time  you  said  that?" 

Tiger  laughed. 

"Ay;  and  you  threatened  to  do  so  again  wi'  your  fist. 
But  I  know  you'll  not  be  rough.  You'm  the  wisest  man 
in  these  parts  and  have  got  the  biggest  heart;  and  I've 
heard  you  say  that  the  greatest  good  to  the  greatest 
number  be  your  rule  of  life.  Well,  so  I  must  go — for 
the  greatest  good  to  the  greatest  number.  'Tis  so,  and 
if  you'll  consider,  you'll  know  'tis  so.  I  can't  say  what 
I  owe  you.  I  can 't  even  think  upon  it.  'Tis  beyond  words 
to  measure  or  deeds  to  pay  again.  And  I  ban't  going 
to  return  evil  for  good.  I  see  my  duty  and  I'm 
going." 

"I've  heard  you  patient — amazing  patient,"  answered 
the  elder.  "And  if  you  knew  what  was  tormenting  me 
at  this  moment,  you'd  wonder  at  my  patience;  but  now 
vou'll  hear  me.    I'll  not  let  vou  go.    You've  come  to  be 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  303 

to  me  more  than  a  hind — far  more  than  a  pair  of  hands 
working  for  wages.  I've  seen  you  grow  from  child  to 
man.  I  've  put  into  you  all  the  Avisdom  and  all  the  friend- 
ship for  folk  in  general  that  I  've  got  myself.  I  've  made 
you  see  life  the  right  way — same  as  I  see  it.  All  that 
I've  done.  And  so  it  comes  about  that  you're  well 
thought  upon  by  everybody,  as  you  deserve  to  be.  But 
you  shan't  leave  me — you  can't,  Tiger.  'T wouldn't  be 
decent,  boy ;   'twouldn  't  be  honourable.     The  chap  I  've 

taught  to  think  as  you  think — the    chap    I've you 

can 't  turn  your  back  on  me — I  say  you  can 't  do  it. ' ' 

"No ;  God  knows  that, ' '  said  the  youth  warmly.  ' '  Turn 
my  back  on  you !  I  'd  sooner  make  a  hole  in  the  water. 
Who  be  I  to  dare  lift  my  eyes  to  your  goodness  ?  You  're 
as  much  above  us  all  as — there,  this  be  cruel.  Don't  I 
know  what  you  are?  And  shan't  I  always  be  proud  to 
black  your  boots  to  my  dying  day?  And  don't  I  know 
right  well  there's  not  a  man  in  Postbridge  worthy  to  do 
it?  But  that's  all  by  the  question.  I  must  go.  I  must. 
I  won't  live  for  myself  in  this  matter.  I'm  outside  your 
life — much  though  you  are  to  me.  And  there's  others 
inside  it.  And  'tis  for  them  I  'm  going ;  but  for  you  first 
— for  you  first,  master.  'Tis  a  seemly  thing.  But  not 
far  off — always  ready  and  thankful  to  do  your  bidding 
if  you  call  to  me." 

"My  bidding  is  that  you  put  this  trash  out  of  your 
brain.  There's  no  sense  in  it — nought  but  the  folly  of  a 
woman  who  ought  to  know  better.  Ban't  I  the  soul  of 
justice?  Should  I  do  wrong  or  lift  you  up  into  the  place 
that  belongs  to  my  own  ?  'Tis  a  gashly  insult  and  a  sin 
against  me  to  think  I  could  do  it;  and  I'll  never  be  the 
same  to  her  again — never.  But  that's  not  for  your  ear. 
I  order  you  to  stop — I  order  you. ' ' 

"No,  master,  you  mustn't  do  that." 

"Then  I  beg  it — I  sink  the  mastership — I'd  scorn  to 
remind  you  of  what's  gone.  You  know  in  your  heart 
where  your  duty  lies ;  but  I  don 't  touch  duty.  I  say  as 
a  friend — man  to  man ;  I  say  '  Stop,  please.  Tiger.  Please, 
Tiger,  stop  along  with  me. '  ' ' 

"I  can't;  it  wouldn't  never  do — never — not  now." 


304  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

Still  the  other  was  patient  and  pleaded. 

"A  good  few  have  turned  against  me  of  lat&-*God 
knows  why.    'Tis  a  terrible  sober  generation,  and  a  merry 

chap  like  me,  as  sometimes  takes  a  drop  too  much 

There's  sour  looks  here  and  there.  Perhaps  I  haven't 
got  any  real  friend  now — none  but  you — you  and  my  own 
folk.  But  even  they — at  times,  you  know.  Of  course 
you  know — what  don't  you  know?  And  now  she's  gone 
— Barbara ' ' 

There  was  a  silence;  then  Tiger  shook  his  head  and 
picked  up  his  spade. 

"  'Twill  be  better  I  should  go — ^you'll  say  so  pres- 
ently." 

"You  can  go  after  my  kneeling  to  you — ^kneeling  to 
you  to  stop  ? " 

'  *  I  must.     'Tis  awful  hard  for  me  too. ' ' 

"Go  then!  Go — and  may  hell  clap  close  on  you,  and 
every  devil  in  it  hunt  you  to  your  dying  day  so  soon 
as  you  be  past  them  gates!  Go — pack  your  fardel  and 
begone — and  never — never  see  my  face  no  more,  you 
canker,  you  blight !  Go — and  get  better  money — go  and 
get  a  kinder  friend — go  and  win  your  reward — like  Judas 
afore  you.  Sell  yourself — and  then  hang  yourself  and 
sink  out  of  the  sight  of  honest  men.  And  keep  my  name 
off  your  blasted  lips  for  ever!  Not  one  man  left — not 
one — that's  fired  by  common  gratitude  in  all  this  world! 
'Tis  left  to  the  dogs  to  feel  it.  And  if  they'd  said  to  me 
that  Tiger's  like  the  rest,  I'd  have  struck  'em  to  the 
earth  with  this  hand. ' ' 

"I  teU  you " 

"Don't  you  answer.  Shut  your  mouth.  You've  said 
enough.  I  never  want  to  hear  your  voice  again.  In- 
gratitude made  alive — ingTatitude  on  a  man's  legs  walk- 
ing the  streets  for  childer  to  spit  at!  'Benefits  forgot' 
shall  be  your  name — a  thankless  thing — a  thankless 
thing — worse  than  hate — worse  than  murder — worse, 
worse  to  me  than  the  darkest  evil  in  the  darkest  heart  of 
living  man." 

Ouldsbroom  seemed  to  sweep  the  other  away,  with  a 
great  gesture  of  his  arm  flung  out  from  the  shoulder. 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  305 

Tiger  did  not  reply.  He  went  on  digging,  and  his 
master  passed  out  of  sight. 

That  evening,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  house, 
Unity,  her  husband,  and  the  two  youths,  sat  together 
in  the  kitchen  after  supper.  The  time  was  nine  o'clock; 
the  cloud  hung  heavy  and  storm-f reighted ;  silence  held 
them  all.    Then  Philip  broke  it. 

"Get  the  Bible,"  he  said  to  Tiger.  "You'm  my  ser- 
vant still ;  and  for  your  month  you  shall  work  and  obey. 
I  '11  not  mar  you — don 't  fear  that — a  very  good  character 
you  shall  have  from  me.  But  orders  be  orders.  Read 
out  the  sixth  of  Job  at  my  command. ' ' 

Tiger  obeyed,  and  all  listened.  Unity  was  working, 
but  her  husband  told  her  to  set  down  her  needle. 

The  poet's  despairing  grief  throbbed  upon  their  ears, 
and  none  spoke  when  Tiger  had  finished. 

"Now  read  the  tenth,"  said  Philip.  "Time  was  when 
I  laughed  at  Barbara  Hext  for  making  me  cleave  to  Job. 
I  little  thought  that  him  and  me  would  one  day  be  birds 
of  a  feather.    Read  the  tenth. 

Tiger  obeyed. 

"  'A  land  of  darkness,  as  darkness  itself;  and  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  without  any  order,  and  where  the  light 
is  as  darkness.'  " 

He  finished,  and  turned  his  eyes  to  his  master  ques- 
tioning. 

"Now  go — the  pair  of  you,"  said  Philip.  "Get  you 
to  your  beds  and  chew  on  it — and  if  it  don't  stab,  it  ought 
to.  'Where  the  light  is  as  darkness' — remember  that's 
in  an  old  man's  heart." 

They  went  away  silently,  and  Unity  marshalled  her 
wits  to  soothe  him.  But  he  was  in  no  mood  to  hear  her 
then. 

"You'm  of  the  other  side,"  he  said.  "You'm  the 
captain  of  the  enemy.  Us '11  be  all  above  board  and 
fair.  I  don't  blame  you.  Unity.  You  think  you  are 
right.  Where  you're  consarned  I'm  terrible  easy  and 
always  shall  be.  But  you're  wrong — wrong — and,  be  it 
as  'twill,  you  can't  work  with  me  and  against  me.  Go 
straight.     Crookedness  is  the  only  thing  I  can't  forgive. 

20 


306  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

Myself  be  my  only  company  henceforth;  you  can't 
neighbour  with  me  in  this  matter,  for  the  trouble  is  your 
breeding. ' ' 

She  tried  to  stay  him ;  but  he  wandered  afield  and  did 
not  return  home  until  after  midnight.  He  came  back 
happier.  Out  of  the  turmoil  of  his  spirit  had  risen  a 
great  hope.  It  was  agony  to  him  to  think  of  losing  Tiger ; 
yet  he  saw  now  that  only  one  being  looked  strong  enough 
to  change  Tiger's  determination.  And  that  one  was 
most  involved  by  it.  From  Philip's  mind  vanished  the 
heart-tearing  scenes  of  that  day.  He  forgot  alike  what 
he  had  suffered  and  what  he  had  inflicted.  His  new 
inspiration  thrust  all  else  into  the  oblivion  of  the  past. 

''I'll  go  to  Martin — I'll  ask  Martin — I'll  call  upon 
Martin  to  stand  up  for  his  father ! ' ' 

He  said  this  over  and  over  to  himself  as  he  turned 
sleepless  by  his  sleeping  wife ;  and  he  longed  for  another 
day  to  come  that  his  appeal  might  be  advanced. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Soon  after  light  had  dawned,  Philip  was  up,  and  before 
six  he  tramped  his  farmyard  and  awaited  the  appearance 
of  Martin.  The  boy  rose  early  always,  but  the  time 
seemed  long  to  Ouldsbroom,  and  presently  he  went  round 
the  house  and  called  up  through  Martin's  open  window. 

"Come  you  down,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  speak  with 
you." 

Five  minutes  later  they  walked  together  on  the  Moor. 
The  morning  was  dark  and  still.  The  heath  seemed  as 
yet  unawakened  and  mist  hung  over  the  high  lands. 

"  'Tis  this.  Tiger  be  set  upon  leaving  us.  I'm  very 
much  troubled  along  of  it,  and  I  dressed  him  down 
properly  yesterday  for  daring  to  think  of  such  a  hateful 
thing.  But  sense  came  in  the  dark  of  night  under  the 
stars,  as  it  often  does  to  fiery  men  like  me.  There's  a 
reason  for  what  he's  done,  and  the  reason  have  brought 
me  to  you.  Your  careful  mother — I  don't  blame  her 
neither — she's  jealous  for  you.  And  ban't  I?  She's  in 
fear  of  the  future.  A  verj^  bitter  blow  to  a  man  like  me 
to  be  mistrusted  in  anything.  But  this — this  is  worse 
than  gall,  because  you're  the  matter.  Ban't  you  as  much 
to  me  as  to  her  ?  Haven 't  I  done  so  much  for  you  as  her  ? 
I  know  she  understands  you  best,  because  in  understand- 
ing of  the  human  heart  her  equal 's  not  left  in  Postbridge 
now  Barbara  be  gone.  But  ban 't  you  my  son  too  ?  Ban 't 
I  loyal  and  true  to  you  as  well  as  her?  Answer  that, 
Martin." 

"Always,  father." 

"Very  well  then.  And  ban't  I  to  be  trusted  to  do 
what's  honest  and  right  by  you?    Is  it  within  the  mind 

307 


308  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

of  any  that  know  me,  to  think  I'd  pass  you  by  for 
another,  or  let  another  come  between  you  and  what's 
lawfully  yours?" 

"  I  'm  sure  not. ' ' 

"Thank  you,  Martin.  I  thank  you  for  that.  You're 
my  son,  and  dearer  far  to  me  than  any  living  creature 
after  your  mother.  I'm  a  very  reasonable,  steadfast 
man,  Martin.  Staunch  to  you — staunch  to  you;  and  if 
I've  my  impatience  and  hard  words — what  is  it?  No 
more  than  the  wind  in  the  trees.  And  now  this  here 
Tiger.  I  can't  move  him.  But  you — don't  you  let  him 
go,  Martin.  Don't  you  let  him  go  away  from  me.  I 
care  a  lot  about  him.  I've  made  him.  I'm  proud  of 
him,  because  he's  a  rare  good  un,  and  he  understands 
me  and  my  ways.  And  I  couldn't  part  with  him.  You'm 
growing  so  strong  and  trustworthy  now — such  a  man — 

that  perhaps  you Will  you  be  my  side,  Martin? 

There  'tis  in  a  word.  And  to  be  honest,  it  have  cost  me 
something  to  ax  it." 

"He  shall  stop  if  I  can  make  him,"  said  the  boy 
thoughtfully.  "If  you  was  to  tell  mother  what  you've 
told  me " 

"I'll  tell  her  nothing!  I'm  proud — damned  proud; 
and  if  I  wasn't,  I'd  wish  to  be.  For  her,  who  knows  me 
better  than  anybody  in  the  world — for  her  to  doubt  me ! 
.  .  .  There — leave  that.  You're  my  side.  And  when 
ever  was  heard  that  a  good  son  wasn't  his  father's  side? 
Don't  I  know  best?" 

"Tiger  shall  stop  if  I  can  make  him,"  repeated  the 
boy.  "He  shan't  go,  father.  'Tis  natural  that  you 
should  set  store  by  him.  There's  a  lot  of  usefulness  in 
him." 

"And  good  in  him — a  lot  of  good  in  him.  'Twas  a 
sort  of  silly  goodness  that  made  him  want  to  go.  I  swear 
that,  Martin." 

"I  believe  it  was.  Still,  he  could  get  higher  wages 
somewhere  else.  He'd  think  of  that  naturally.  I 
wouldn't  blame  him  either." 

"Wouldn't  you?  But  I  would.  Curse  wages!  'Tis 
an  unclean  thought  betv/een  me  and  him ;  and  he  knows 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  300 

it;  and  if  I  believed  'twas  wages  was  drawing  him,  I'd 
let  him  go  and  help  him  to  go  with  my  boot.  Wages 
— wages — the  minds  of  the  people  reek  of  wages  and 
nought  else;  and  that's  why  I  hate  a  good  few  of  'em. 
But  Tiger — no ;  'tisn  't  his  good  but  yours  that  was  going 
to  take  him  away.  And  so  I've  had  the  terrible  witty 
thought  to  come  to  you. ' ' 

"I'm  your  side  about  it,  father.  I  like  Tiger  very 
much.  But  if  I  try  to  make  him  stop,  I  must  talk  to 
him.  I'll  be  set  over  him  when  I  come  home  for  good 
at  Christmas.    I'll  be  master  then,  under  you." 

"Of  course  you  will.  And  them  that  pleasure  you 
will  pleasure  me.  Have  I  made  you  what  you  are  for 
smaller  men  to  flout  you?  You'll  be  my  right  hand, 
and  well  I  know  it." 

"Then,  look  here,  father,  I'm  your  side,  and  all  I  do 
and  all  I  say  is  for  the  good  of  Hartland,  and  for  your 
good.  I'll  be  the  best  son  I  know  how  to  be,  and  I  want 
you  to  believe  in  me." 

' '  Why  not  ?    I  shall  believe  in  you — I  do. ' ' 

"Then  I'll  talk  to  Tiger,  and  I'll  make  it  a  subject  of 
prayer  first." 

"I  want  you  to  talk  now.  I  can't  wait  while  you  go 
praying.  I  must  have  this  off  my  mind  to-day — afore 
breakfast — this  instant  moment." 

"I'll  see  him  then.  I'll  say  straight  what  I  think; 
and  I  '11  remember  what  he  is  to  you — I  '11  remember  that, 
father." 

"Don't  forget  you've  growed  up  together.  Don't 
forget  what  a  great  man  he  thinks  you  are.  He'd  go  to 
the  moon  for  you.  Poor  devil — don't  he  want  to  do  even 
what's  harder  for  him,  and  go  away  from  Hartland?  I 
saw  it  all  in  his  face;  even  while  I  was  white-hot  and 
cussing  him  to  hell,  I  saw  it.  Not  a  word  he  answered. 
He 's  good,  Martin.  He 's  a  rare  piece !  Deal  gentle  with 
him.  Remember — remember !  'Twas  him  that  went  for 
the  doctor  when  the  snake  bit  you ;  'twas  him  that " 

"You  needn't  tell  me  these  things,  father.  I  never 
forget  a  kindness  that's  done  to  me.  And  I'll  speak  to 
mother  too — if  you'll  let  me." 


310  THE   THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

" I  '11  let  you  do  what  you  please.  I  'm  proud  of  your 
sense.  Thank  you,  Martin ;  shake  hands,  Martin.  You've 
took  a  weight  off  my  shoulders — a  weight  heavier  than 
I'd  care  to  own  to.  I'm  getting  old,  I  suppose — not 
real  old  yet,  thank  God — but  getting  on.  And  'tis  right, 
with  white  hairs,  that  a  father  should  trust  to  his  son's 
shoulder  sometimes.  This  is  a  very  good  day — to  be 
marked  with  a  white  stone,  as  they  say.  Thank  you, 
my  son.  I'm  terrible  beholden  to  you.  Make  him  stay; 
and  for  God's  sake  get  it  done  afore  breakfast.  Then  I 
can  eat  again.    You'll  find  him  milking." 

"  'Tis  breakfast  time  now." 

' '  Damn  breakfast !  Get  to  him — quick !  I  'm  on  thorns 
till  you've  handled  him.  Tell  him  how  'tis  with  me — 
though  well  he  knows  it.  He'll  be  down  on  his  own  luck, 
poor  toad.    You  won't  need  to  ax  twice,  I  reckon." 

They  parted,  and  Martin  went  where  Tiger  might  be 
found,  while  Ouldsbroom  looked  at  his  watch  and  calcu- 
lated, like  a  child,  on  the  length  of  time  that  must  elapse 
before  the  desired  thing  was  done.  He  sat  on  a  stone 
and  watched  the  minute  hand  crawl. 

"Now  they'm  together,"  he  thought;  "now  Martin's 
begun  on  him ;  now  Tiger 's  answering.  I  '11  give  'em  ten 
good  minutes,  if  I  can  stick  it  so  long;  then  I'll  go  down." 

He  rose,  and  strode  this  way  and  that.  Then  he  heard, 
thin  and  far  away  below,  his  wife's  voice  at  the  farm- 
house door. 

' '  Breaksis !    Breaksis !    Breaksis ! ' '  she  cried. 

Meantime  Martin  spoke  with  Tiger  where  the  latter 
sat  on  a  milking-stool  at  work. 

The  shallow  vein  of  sentiment  that  belonged  to  Unity's 
son  still  persisted,  and  as  yet  life  had  not  dried  up  the 
trickle  of  it.  He  felt  for  his  father  in  this  matter,  and 
if  slight,  his  emotion  was  genuine.  The  inevitable  battle 
of  wills  between  Ouldsbroom  and  this  boy  had  yet  to 
come.  For  the  present  Martin  was  flattered  by  his  fan- 
cied father's  praise  and  by  the  great  commission  upon 
which  he  now  found  himself.  His  mother  also  came  into 
his  mind,  and  for  the  future  he  feared  nothing.    She  and 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  311 

he,  between  them,  were  strong  enough  to  control  the 
master  of  Hartland.  He  felt  sanguine  even  of  Oulds- 
broom  in  that  hour.  He  trusted  that  Philip  would  rely- 
more  and  more  upon  him.  He  remembered  the  voice  of 
Mr.  Twigg,  and  believed  that  it  might  yet  be  his  proud 
privilege  to  save  an  erring  parent's  soul. 

In  an  exalted  frame  of  mind  he  came  upon  his  errand ; 
but  the  fervour  waned  and  he  quickly  grew  businesslike 
and  practical. 

' '  Good  morning,  Tiger.  Go  on  milking.  I  can  talk.  I 
want  you,  please,  to  listen  to  a  rather  serious  thing.  I  've 
just  been  hearing  my  father  about  you.  He 's  very  much 
troubled  as  to  what  fell  out  between  you  and  him  yes- 
terday. ' ' 

"Can't  be  more  than  what  I  am,"  answered  the  other. 
"  I  '11  swear  I  woke  up  twice  in  the  night. ' ' 

"You  oughtn't  to  go  from  here,  and  you  mustn't  go." 

"You  say  that!" 

' '  Yes,  Tiger.  This  is  rather  beyond  me  altogether  and 
I  'm  a  bit  helpless  over  it.  But  I  think  I  understand  how 
it  is.  You  see  there's  mother  on  one  side  and  my  father 
on  the  other,  and  I'm  between.  Mother  thinks  that  my 
father  is  too  fond  of  you  and  might  shut  me  out  come 
presently;  but  I  don't  think  so.  He's  a  very  wild  sort 
of  man,  because  he 's  got  no  religion ;  but  I  've  never 
heard  that  he  did  anything  not  honourable.    Have  you  ? ' ' 

"He  couldn't — no  more  than  I  could  jump  over  Hart- 
land  Tor." 

"So  I've  told  him  I'll  ask  you  to  stop.  I  trust  you, 
Tiger.  I  know  what  you  are  to  him.  I'm  pretty  quick 
at  seeing.  He  comes  to  you  for  a  lot  of  things  that  I 
can't  give  him;  because  if  I  know  he's  wrong,  I  won't 
say  I  think  he's  right.  And  he  comes  to  you  for  sport- 
ing; and  old  as  he  is,  sporting  is  a  lot  to  him,  because  his 
mind  is  rather  simple.  I  'm  not  saying  anything  unkind. 
There's  many  like  him.  I  suppose  you'll  be  the  same. 
He  comes  to  you.  Tiger,  for  what  I  can't  give  him;  and 
therefore  you  'd  better  stay. ' ' 

"What  about  missis?" 

' '  Mother  will  see  it  when  I  put  it  to  her. ' ' 


312  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"I'll  stay  if  she  says  'Stay,'  but  not  else.  I'd  rather 
face  his  rage  than  her," 

"Then  you'll  stay,"  said  Martin.  "Mother  and  I 
always  agree.  I'm  very  glad.  And  now,  hear  me,  Tiger. 
I  don't  want  to  set  myself  up  over  you,  or  anything  like 
that.  We've  all  got  our  faults — me  as  many  as  another; 
but  Providence  has  a  way  of  letting  us  see  the  truth 
about  one  another,  though  it  hides  the  truth  from  us 
about  ourselves.  And  we  ought  to  tell  one  another  and 
bear  one  another's  burdens  and  point  out  one  another's 
faults.    And  we  oughtn  't  to  take  it  in  bad  part. ' ' 

' '  That 's  all  right, ' '  answered  the  elder. 

"When  I  come  home  for  good  at  Christmas,"  con- 
tinued Martin,  "I'm  going  to  speak  to  father  straight. 
I  shall  be  in  my  right  to  do  it  then ;  because  I  shall  take 
up  my  duty  in  the  world  and  do  what  I  was  called  to  do. 
And  my  father  must  tell  me  about  the  will  he's  made 
and  have  no  secrets  from  me.  I've  done  my  duty  at 
school,  Tiger,  and  worked  hard  to  profit  by  all  my 
parents  have  done  for  me;  and  when  I  come  home,  'tis 
my  pride  to  think  they'll  see  their  trouble  wasn't  wasted. 
I  'm  going  to  take  a  lot  of  work  off  my  father 's  shoulders ; 
and  I  must  hear  about  the  money,  and  how  it  is  to  be  left 
for  mother,  and  where  I  stand  and  so  on.  That's  right 
and  justice — especially  with  a  man  like  my  father.  He 
owes  it  to  me  and  mother,  because  his  way  of  life  is  un- 
even, and  he  may  come  to  grief  some  day  in  his  cups." 

' '  You  '11  have  to  be  terrible  clever  to  win  round  him. ' ' 

' '  I  know  where  to  look  for  the  cleverness,  Tiger.  We  'II 
leave  that,  because  that's  my  business  and  not  yours. 
Now  about  you;  I  put  it  to  you  whether  you  mightn't 
work  a  bit  harder  for  your  money.    What  d'you  think?" 

Tiger  laughed. 

"Who  mightn't  come  to  that?"  he  said.  "But  no 
doubt  'tis  so.    He'd  spoil  the  devil — master  would." 

"  I  '11  say  this.  Don 't  go  off  sporting  with  him  so  often. 
Now  'tis  shooting,  now  'tis  fishing,  now  'tis  to  draw  a 
badger,  now  to  see  hounds  meet.  Let  him  go  alone.  He 's 
old,  and  there 's  no  harm  in  him  slacking  off.  I  want  him 
to  slack  off  when  I  come  back — the  more  the  better.    He 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  313 

was  never  called  upon  to  work  very  hard  in  his  life,  or 
want  for  money,  and  he'll  never  know  what  real  hard 
work  or  poverty  is,  I  suppose,  now.  But  vou — eh, 
Tiger?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see.  I've  struggled  against  him,  but  never 
was  a  man  who  less  liked  'No'  for  an  answer.  I've  got 
into  an  easy  way,  I'm  af eared.  But  I'll  tighten  up 
against  him  if  I  can.  I've  felt  troubled  afore  to-day,  I 
promise  you.  He  lets  t 'others  work,  but — well — 'tis  al- 
Avays  'Knock  off  and  come  along  of  me.  Tiger.'  And 
then,  again,  there's  my  girl.  'Tis  always,  'You  pack  away 
over  the  hill  to  Mary — don't  want  you  no  more  to-day.' 
And  where  a  sweetheart's  in  the  wind,  a  chap  be  weak. 
He  do  so  dearly  love  to  see  everybody  having  a  good 
time. "  * 

"Not  everybody,"  corrected  Martin.  "I've  watched 
his  way,  of  course,  and  I  mark  he's  a  terrible  hand  at 
making  favourites.  He  never  tells  Will  Rogers  to  knock 
off — more  likely  he'll  use  coarse  words  to  him  for  being 
idle.  He's  not  all  of  a  piece,  my  father.  But  you're 
different,  and  you  know  very  well  what  a  day's  work 
ought  to  be. ' ' 

Tiger  did  not  immediately  reply,  A  flutter  of  indig- 
nation lifted  his  breast,  but  he  stilled  it.  He  wondered 
how  long  he  would  stop  at  Hartland  after  Philip  passed 
therefrom;  and  he  knew  that  the  days  would  be  few. 
For  the  present,  however,  he  was  very  thankful  to  re- 
main. 

"You've  spoken  and  I've  heard,"  he  answered  at 
length;  "you'll  not  have  to  speak  again.  'Tis  all  sound 
sense  and  reason  that  you  say.  And  I  thank  you  for 
showing  me  what  I  knew  already  for  that  matter.  I've 
been  wrong  here  and  there.  But  I'll  right  the  wrong  so 
far  as  I  see  how." 

"Thank  you  very  much  indeed.  Tiger.  I  know  well 
what  a  good  chap  you  are — and  clever  too.  There's  only 
one  more  thing.  I  do  wish  you'd  try  to  go  with  my 
father  when  he  buys.    That 's  the  dangerous  time. ' ' 

"It  is,"  admitted  the  other,  "and  that's  just  when  he 
never  will  have  me.    Always  finds  two  men's  work  for 


314  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

me  when  he 's  off  to  market.  Tender  ground  there.  But 
I'll  do  what  I  may." 

It  was  then  that  Unity  cried  aloud  and  bade  them  to 
breakfast.  Tiger  had  been  milking  while  he  talked,  and 
now,  with  two  pails,  he  returned  beside  Martin. 

"I'll  go  forward  and  tell  them,"  said  the  younger; 
and  when  Tiger  had  washed  his  hands  and  come  to  table, 
he  found  Philip  in  great  spirits  and  full  of  noisy  re- 
joicings. 

"You  young  dog!"  he  shouted.  "And  so  Martin's 
cleverness  brought  you  to  reason — eh  1  Well  I  knew  he  'd 
soon  get  the  length  of  your  shoe,  though  I  couldn  't.  But 
never  you  say  such  things  to  me  again,  or  I  '11  wring  your 
neck  for  you ! ' ' 

He  chattered,  ate  mightily,  and  planned  a  whole  holi- 
day for  Tiger  and  himself. 

' '  Us  '11  keep  you  company,  Martin, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Us  '11  go 
up  over  after  the  snipe  and  have  a  proper  bit  of  fun. 
Fog's  lifting  very  clever,  and  we'm  like  to  have  a  grand 
day.  And  mother — dammy  if  mother  shan't  come  too! 
You'll  have  the  pony,  mother.  I'll  take  no  denial — none 
at  all.  'Tis  years  since  you  was  that  way,  and  a  breath 
of  air  will  do  you  a  world  of  good.  You  look  after  the 
meat  and  I  '11  get  the  bottles,  and  you  chaps  can  carry  'em, 
for  I  shall  have  my  gun.  And  Barbara  would  forgive 
us— she'd  be  glad.  Not  a  mourning  band  she  allowed. 
She  ordered  me  not  to  put  one  on  afore  she  died. ' ' 

He  insisted  upon  his  plan,  and  departed  soon  with 
Tiger  to  leave  directions  for  the  day's  work  after  they 
should  be  gone.  To  the  youth  he  turned  then,  and  put 
out  his  hand.    He  did  not  speak,  but  shook  and  shook. 

"Never  you  dare  again!"  said  Philip  at  last;  and 
neither  dwelt  more  upon  the  subject. 

Unity,  albeit  her  own  purpose  had  thus  failed,  cared 
little  before  the  exposition  of  her  son's  dawning  power. 
It  came  as  a  revelation  to  her  and  caused  her  great  com- 
fort. Martin's  tact  and  strength  of  mind  impressed  her 
deeply.  They  pointed  the  way  to  future  peace  by  a  road 
she  had  never  considered.  That  her  son  would  develop 
resources  great  enough  to  cow  and  restrain  her  husband. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  315 

was  a  possibility  beyond  her  hopes.  Yet  now  the  thing 
looked  within  reason  and  likelihood.  True  it  was  that 
Martin  had  only  done  what  his  father  begged  him  to  do 
— a  course  not  difficult ;  but  the  significant  circumstance 
was  that  Philip  should  have  appealed  to  Martin ;  that  he 
should  have  exalted  Martin  to  this  task;  that  he  should 
not  hesitate  to  admit  that  Martin  had  succeeded  where 
himself  had  failed.  She  was  gratified  and  even  light- 
hearted  when  she  thought  upon  these  things. 

Then  Martin  himself  approached  his  mother  concern- 
ing an  ambition  now  grown  great  to  him.  Three  days 
before  he  returned  to  school,  he  asked  her  to  come  for  a 
walk  and  invited  her  to  consider  an  idea. 

"I  was  talking  with  Mr.  Twigg  on  Monday.  He's 
infirm  now,  and  I  think  it  cheers  him  up  to  see  me,  be- 
cause I  'm  serious.  So  I  visit  him.  And  he  was  on  at  me 
about  the  Little  Baptists;  and,  somehow,  to  me  they  do 
seem  more  real  and  alive  in  a  sort  of  way  than  our  people 
at  the  church.  There's  more  tire  in  them  and  I — well, 
suppose  I  was  to  say  I'd  much  like  to  join  them  and  go 

back  to  the  people  you ?    You  was  a  Little  Baptist 

yourself,  mother.  How  would  you  like  to  go  back  to 
them?  I  only  ask  to  hear  how  the  thought  strikes  you. 
I  wouldn't  do  it  if  you  didn't  like  it." 

She  did  not  immediately  answer.  Memory's  veil  lifted 
for  her;  more  than  twenty  years  rolled  away  while  the 
boy  spoke;  she  saw  herself  again,  a  maiden  standing  be- 
side Henry  Birdwood  and  singing  out  of  his  hymn-book. 
She  remembered  the  shape  and  the  colour  of  his  thumb 
upon  the  page. 

"  'Tis  all  much  the  same  to  me,  I  think — now,"  she 
answered  presently.  "I  wouldn't  say  but  'tis  a  very 
natural  thing  that  you  should  feel  this  come  over  you — 
yes,  a  very  natural  thing." 

' '  You  don 't  hold  it  wrong  in  me  to  hanker  to  change  ? ' ' 

' '  Nothing  wrong  surely.  The  Crymes  folk  was  always 
that  way  of  thinking.  Leave  it  till  you  come  home,  Mar- 
tin. Then,  if  you'm  still  set  on  it,  I'll  go  back  with  you. 
'Twould  be  old  ground  to  me.    Yes,  I'd  go  back." 

Her  easiness  lightened  his  mind. 


316  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

*'IVe  been  a  good  bit  troubled  by  it,"  he  confessed; 
"and  I'm  sorry  now  that  I  didn't  speak  to  you  quicker. 
There's  none  so  wise  and  large-minded  as  you,  mother. 
D'you  think  'tis  in  the  bounds  of  hope  that  we'll  ever 
get  father  to  come  ? ' ' 

"I'd  have  said  'never'  ten  days  agone,"  she  answered; 
"but  noAV,  knowing  what  I  know,  and  seeing  as  the  old 
grow  weak  and  the  young  get  strong,  I'll  not  say  that 
anything — not  even  such  a  thing — is  outside  the  bounds 
of  hope." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Younger  boys  were  sometimes  wont  to  come  to  Martin 
Ouldsbroom  when  in  trouble ;  but  none  ever  approached 
him  with  their  joys.  He  moved  through  his  school-life 
soberly  and  with  credit.  His  ability  was  not  remarkable, 
but  he  worked  hard  and  stood  high  in  the  school  when 
the  time  came  for  leaving  it.  He  played  games  and 
played  them  well,  yet  not  with  all  his  heart.  Success  or 
failure  at  cricket  and  football  left  him  indifferent.  En- 
thusiasm he  had,  but  it  was  spent  on  other  things.  His 
patriotism  belonged  to  matters  of  religion  and  was  hid- 
den from  the  eyes  of  his  fellows ;  his  thrift  he  could  not 
hide,  and  it  made  him  enemies.  His  masters  thought 
well  of  him,  yet  found  him  uninteresting,  colourless,  and 
a  prig.  He  gave  them  no  trouble,  and  they  slighted  him 
accordingly.  He  lacked  humour  and  the  power  to  cajole 
or  charm.  'The  Sabbath  of  his  mind  required  no  levities,' 
and  he  moved  in  a  sort  of  twilight  of  reserve  and  self- 
contentment.  The  passions  and  sensations  that  came  to 
other  young  men  appeared  to  pass  him  by.  He  hid  what 
nature  made  him  feel ;  he  asked  for  no  light  upon  novel 
emotions;  but  he  was  always  glad  to  throw  light  for 
others,  and  liked  nothing  better  than  to  spend  a  half- 
holiday  with  the  smaller  boys  and  improve  their  Imow- 
ledge.  His  instruction  was  quite  sound,  and  if  he  did 
not  know  the  answer  to  a  question,  he  always  confessed 
his  ignorance.  At  the  end  of  his  school-days  he  often 
read  prayers,  and  sometimes  he  took  a  junior  class  at  his 
own  wish.  He  was  arid  and  lacked  sympathy.  He  in- 
culcated habits  of  self-control  in  the  matter  of  food  and 
pocket-money,   and  his  advice   left  smaller  boys   cold. 

317 


318  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

His  career  seemed  pretty  clearly  defined  in  the  eyes  of 
his  masters.  They  feared  nothing  for  him;  neither  did 
they  hope  much.  His  agricultural  life  promised  to  be 
uneventful  and  prosperous.  His  probity  and  justice 
would  be  balanced  against  a  lack  of  humanism  and  toler- 
ance with  the  faulty  human  machine.  They  trusted  that 
life  would  soften  him  and  make  a  fine  man  of  him;  but 
his  lack  of  imagination  promised  to  come  betw^een  him 
and  any  right  understanding  of  mankind.  They  won- 
dered what  were  his  temptations,  but  could  not  guess. 
One  sanguine  usher  suspected  that  a  woman  might  save 
the  situation ;  but  the  idea  was  ridiculed.  Martin 's 
solitary  revelation  of  himself  was  greed;  and  love  of 
woman  is  not  potent  to  cleanse  that  impurity. 

So  he  reached  the  close  of  his  school-life,  and  chance 
willed  that  it  should  be  shortened  by  a  fortnight. 

There  came  a  telegram  from  Postbridge  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment  on  a  Sunday  three  weeks  before  Christ- 
mas, and  Martin  was  shocked  to  learn  that  his  mother 
had  fallen  dangerously  ill. 

For  once  emotion  did  mark  his  action;  he  departed 
as  swiftly  as  possible  and  omitted  all  amenities  before 
setting  out.  The  telegram  found  him  coming  from  school 
chapel,  and  he  rushed  away  before  breakfast  and  drove 
home  as  fast  as  a  horse  could  take  him. 

Philip  was  waiting  for  Martin  half  way  down  the  cart- 
road  from  Hartland.  He  carried  his  right  hand  in  a 
sling,  and  two  heavy  strips  of  sticking  plaster  crossed  his 
left  cheek.  He  was  haggard  and  stricken.  His  great 
shoulders  had  bowed  of  late ;  his  voice  was  broken. 

"List  to  me,"  he  said,  "and  hear  the  w^orst  from  him 
who  did  it.  Your  mother 's  in  no  danger  for  the  moment. 
She  may  live,  but  she's  very  bad,  and  she  may  die.  For 
my  part  I  know  she'll  live,  because  for  her  to  die  of  this 
would  be  the  awfullest  thing  that  ever  happened  on 
earth.  'Tis  too  awful  to  happen — that's  what  I  tell  my- 
self over  and  over." 

' '  Was  it  an  accident  ? ' ' 

"  'Twas  an  accident  brought  about  by  me.  I  ban't 
going  to  hide  any  of  it,  though  no  doubt  she'll  try  to. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  319 

Yesterday  I  drove  her  into  Tavistock  market.  By  evening 
I  got  very  drunk,  along  of  meeting  a  man  I  thought  was 
dead.  Such  was  my  joy  about  it,  that  I  took  enough 
for  half  a  dozen,  and  then,  when  mother  wanted  to  drive, 
I  wouldn't  let  her.  I  very  near  got  back,  but  just  afore 
you  come  to  Postbridge  it  happened.  I  ran  into  the  wall 
going  down  the  hill  and  killed  my  boss.  Us  was  thrown 
out,  and  I  thought  she  was  gone.  I  shouted,  and  a  man 
or  two  came  along.  They  carried  her  home,  and  she 
comed  to  presently.  Then  they  sent  for  doctor,  and 
he  was  here  all  night  along  with  her.  He  can 't  say  much 
yet,  but  he  don't  like  it.  As  for  me,  I  comed  off  very 
near  scot  free,  as  drunken  men  will.  My  elbow  was  put 
out  and  my  leg  torn  and  my  face  scratched.  That  was 
all.  I  needn't  tell  you  what  I  feel  about  this  here.  I 
be  going  to  take  the  pledge — God's  my  judge  if  I  don't — 
the  day  she's  out  of  danger." 

They  went  in  together.  Mrs.  Dury  was  waiting  on 
the  sufferer,  and  Martin  could  not  see  his  mother  im- 
mediately, for  she  slumbered.  He  asked  for  food,  be- 
cause he  was  hungry.  Then,  since  his  mother  was  still 
in  peaceful  sleep,  he  went  out  and  spoke  with  Tiger. 

"You  needn't  mind  telling  me  everything,"  he  said. 
"My  father  has  made  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

"He  meant  to  tell  you  everything  himself.  'Tis  a 
cruel  bad  job  all  round.  None  can  throw  a  ray  of  light 
for  him  if  you  can't.  I  hope  'twas  in  your  power  to 
comfort  him  a  thought  ? ' ' 

"I  didn't  try  to,"  answered  Martin.  "You  must  re- 
member how  I  felt  myself.  I've  got  my  religion,  and 
at  times  like  this  we  know  the  meaning  of  it.  But  how 
can  I  comfort  my  father?" 

"I  hope  and  pray  missis  will  live.  Mr.  Ouldsbroom 
be  sure  she  will." 

"That's  his  way  always.  And  I  hope — for  his  sake 
before  even  my  own — that  mother  will  live.  I  knew 
some  terrible  thing  would  happen  sooner  or  later;  but 

I  little  thought 'Tis  the  curse  of  wickedness.  Tiger,. 

that  the  punishment  often  falls  on  the  innocent." 

"He's  punished  enough.    The  very  dogs  see  it.    They 


320  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

go  wagging  their  tails  to  him  to  try  and  cheer  him  up 
as  he  passes  by.  If  your  mother  is  took  off,  you'll  have 
to  watch  him  close. ' ' 

"But  he  swears  she  is  going  to  live." 

''  'Tis  all  bluster  to  hide  himself.  Only  doctor  knows, 
and  he 's  not  over  hopeful.    He  told  me. ' ' 

"I  can't  think  of  this  place  without  mother.  Such  a 
life — such  a  life  to  be  thrown  away — at  least  not  that — 
to  be  called  away.  Prayers  must  be  offered  up  at  church 
and  chapel  to-night,  Tiger. ' ' 

' '  They  prayed  for  her  in  church  to-day,  for  that  matter 
— so  Eogers  told  me. ' ' 

"Not  my  father's  work?" 

"No;  her  own.  She  explained  to  Betty  Dury  last 
night  that  she  was  very  wishful  to  live  if  it  pleased  God ; 
and  she  axed  Betty  to  have  the  prayers  of  the  people 
called  for.  I  went  down  this  morning  to  parson  with  the 
message. ' ' 

The  arrival  of  a  medical  man  cut  short  their  confer- 
ence. Tiger  took  his  horse  and  Martin  entered  the  house 
with  him. 

Mrs.  Ouldsbroom  was  seen,  and  her  husband  and  son 
waited  for  the  report.  Guarded  hope  marked  it,  but  they 
learned  that  time  must  elapse  before  any  definite  pro- 
nouncement for  good  or  evil  could  be  made. 

Martin  spent  half  an  hour  with  his  mother,  and  found 
her  very  calm,  very  weak,  and  free  from  pain.  Herself 
she  was  not  sanguine.  Her  mind  continued  clear,  and 
she  spoke  not  of  the  past,  but  the  future.  Unity  indicated 
to  her  son  the  way  his  course  must  lie. 

"Be  patient  with  him,"  she  said.  "All  I  can  say  in 
that  matter  is  'Be  patient.'  You've  larned  the  art  of 
that  from  me,  Martin,  and  when  you'm  sore  driven  and 
galled  by  the  poor  man,  remember  me  and  my  word." 

She  broke  off  and  presently  spoke  again. 

"And  be  in  no  haste  to  wed.  Plenty  of  time  for  that. 
Go  slow  and  get  well  into  the  saddle  here.  Let  your 
father  see  that  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about; 
show  him  gradual  that  the  new  is  better  than  the  old. 
Don't  press  him  too  far  home,  but  ease  off  when  he  begins 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  321 

to  get  restive.  Remember  that  he's  never  quite  grown 
up,  so  to  say,  and  he  never  will  now.  You'm  clever  at 
humouring  children.    So  you  must  be  clever  with  him." 

He  said  nothing,  but  listened  to  her. 

"And  let  money  be  a  servant,  not  a  master,  Martin, 
Don't  you  let  it  rule  over  you.  You  must  rule  over  it. 
You'll  marry  presently.  But  I  say  again,  be  in  no  haste 
to  do  that.  Choose  one  that  feels  as  you  do  yourself 
and  ban't  too  worldly  nor  yet  too  fond  of  herself.  Choose 
one  who's  seen  the  rough  edge  a  bit  and  don't  come 
straight  out  of  a  warm  nest.  Choose  a  girl  that  knows 
work  and  the  worth  of  it.  Let  her  be  one  you  feel  can 
help  you  where  you  want  help.  Don 't  shut  her  out  from 
helping.  The  happy  wife's  most  always  the  helpful  one. " 

An  expression  of  pain  crossed  her  face.  Martin's 
brow  furrowed  and  he  reflected  the  suffering. 

"Don't  you  talk  if  it  hurts  you.  mother." 

"Hold  my  hand,"  she  said.  "And  be  so  gentle  with 
people  as  you've  always  been  with  me,  Martin.  Don't 
be  stiff-necked.  Try  to  find  out  what's  good  in  the 
neighbours,  and  if  you  can't,  blame  yourself,  not 
them.  There's  good  in  all;  and  the  true  Christian  is 
him  that  has  the  wit  to  find  it,  no  matter  what  dross 
overlays  it.  Be  gentle  to  your  father.  This  is  worse  for 
him  than  us." 

Unity's  talk  became  incoherent,  and  she  suddenly 
realised  that  she  was  wandering.  Therefore  she  spoke  no 
more. 

' '  Go  now, ' '  she  said,  ' '  and  tell  Betty  to  come  in. ' ' 

"I'm  seeking  Mr.  Twigg  to  ask  for  them  to  pray  for 
you  at  the  Little  Baptists  to-night." 

She  smiled  on  him  and  he  went  away. 

Philip,  Martin,  and  Tiger  ate  together  presently,  and 
the  meal  was  taken  in  silence. 

Martin  indeed  began  to  talk,  but  Ouldsbroom  bade 
him  desist. 

' '  'Tis  no  good  pretending, ' '  he  said.  ' '  You  mean  well ; 
but  there's  only  one  subject  in  our  minds,  and  'tis 
treason  to  try  and  get  away  from  it." 

He  was  unshaved,  and  Martin  noticed  that  his  chin 

21 


322  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

had  upon  it  silvery  bristles.  His  right  arm  was  useless 
at  present,  and  Tiger  cut  his  meat  small  for  him,  so  that 
he  might  eat  with  his  fork.  Philip  drank  nothing  but 
water. 

"I  wish  to  God  the  old  doctor  had  lived  to  carry- 
through  this  job,"  he  said  suddenly.  "This  man  be  too 
young  for  such  a  life-and-death  matter.  I'd  have  felt  a 
deal  more  hopeful  in  Dickinson's  hands." 

"Mr.  Forde  is  very  clever  for  certain,"  declared  Martin. 
"And,  remember,  he  said  just  before  he  went,  that  he 
would  have  another  opinion  to-morrow.  He's  written  to 
Plymouth." 

"The  world's  in  the  hands  of  the  young  now,  seem- 
ingly. God  knows  it  ban't  for  me  to  grumble  neither — 
not  after  my  work  yesterday." 

He  rose  abruptly  and  left  them. 

"Keep  him  in  sight,  Tiger,"  advised  Martin.  "I'm 
going  to  walk  up  and  see  Mr.  Twigg.  And  to-night  I'm 
going  to  help  watch  over  mother. ' ' 

Unity  Ouldsbroom  had  leisure  for  thought  before  her 
case  was  determined,  and  she  brooded  with  herself  over 
many  things.  The  past  homed  upon  her  and  she  lived  in 
it.  Again  and  again  she  turned  from  them,  but  the 
vanished  j^ears  fastened  upon  her  spirit;  the  secret  of 
her  life  came  out  of  memory  and  huddled  its  wings  close 
round  about  her.  It  was  insistent,  imperious,  almost 
visible  and  articulate.  It  cried  to  be  answered  and  pro- 
claimed. It  clamoured  to  be  voiced  by  her  and  she  had 
to  begin  to  fight  it.  An  instinct  to  speak  and  tell  her 
husband  the  truth  wakened  in  her  and  set  her  shudder- 
ing physically.  The  nurse  feared  a  rigor,  and  guessed 
that  she  was  worse.  Unity  put  this  temptation  from  her, 
but  it  returned.  She  began  to  doubt  her  strength;  she 
dreaded  sleep.  A  suspicion  settled  upon  her  that  at  the 
last  she  might  speak,  ere  death  hid  up  all  for  ever.  Re- 
gret the  truth  she  did  not.  It  was  incarnate  in  the  form 
of  her  son — the  most  precious  experience  that  life  had 
brought  to  her. 

Birdwood  rose  from  his  grave  and  came  to  Unity  then. 
She  saw  him  as  a  motionless,  watchful  creature  amid 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  323 

the  other  watchers.  She  was  indifferent,  and  neither 
welcomed  nor  repelled  the  shadow  of  him. 

A  second  physician  presently  visited  her  and  gave 
some  hope ;  but  two  days  later  serious  symptoms  appeared 
and  an  operation  became  necessary.  It  was  performed, 
and  the  patient  sank  under  it.  She  continued  conscious 
to  the  end;  Martin  never  left  her;  Philip  came  and 
went.  Like  a  shadow  he  stalked  the  farmyard  and  the 
wild  places  round  about.  He  saw  darkness  roll  over  the 
eastern  hills  and  light  fade  above  the  west.  They  called 
him  at  last,  when  the  evening  star  glittered  above  Broad 
Down  from  out  a  dim  green  sky.  Then  sable-footed, 
gentle,  swift  came  the  December  night  that  saw  the  end 
of  Unity  Ouldsbroom. 

She  could  speak,  and  her  mind  was  clear  and  collected. 
Her  breath  grew  fainter,  and  sometimes  she  smiled. 
Martin  was  close  to  her  and  talked  to  her.  He  repeated 
texts  from  Scripture.  He  did  not  look  at  Philip,  but 
kept  his  eyes  on  his  mother. 

In  her  mind  was  still  a  strife,  still  an  uncertainty.  Her 
problem  centred  round  Martin's  future,  and  she  won- 
dered whether  revelation  would  mar  it,  or  make  it  a  finer 
thing.  She  had  never  anticipated  this  great  problem, 
and  came  upon  it  now  too  sick  to  see  all  that  a  decision 
involved.  That  confession  must  for  ever  ruin  her  own 
repute  did  not  trouble  her.  She  cared  nothing  for  that. 
Nor  did  she  suffer  Philip  to  influence  her  now.  Once 
she  thought  of  whispering  the  truth  to  Martin.  But 
she  guessed  that  he  would  not  keep  it  a  secret  after  she 
was  gone.  Then  she  remembered  his  instincts  and  be- 
lieved that  possibly  he  might  hide  it.  To  put  such  an 
ordeal  upon  him  was  not  just  or  necessary ;  yet  to  know 
the  secret  might  influence  his  w^hole  life  for  good. 
She  battled  with  the  problem,  and  no  conclusion 
came.  Twenty-four  hours  before  her  death  she  still 
doubted. 

Time  swept  onward,  and  the  last  minutes  of  her  life 
ran  out.  The  hour  was  near  six  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
and  her  son  sat  beside  Unity  and  held  her  hand.  He 
pressed  it,  but  she  could  not  press  back. 


324  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Elsewhere  Tiger  walked  and  strove  with  his  master 
and  sought  to  abate  his  raving. 

"What  have  I  done  for  this  to  happen  against  me? 
Tell  me  that.  Let  anybody  tell  me  that.  What  devil 
of  a  God  would  turn  a  man's  hand  against  her  he  loved 
best  on  the  whole  earth?  If  she's  to  die,  I'll  do  such 
things — I'll  lay  all  waste — I'll  fire  the  farm— I'll  strike 

back But  there's  no  God — none — and  this  job  proves 

it." 

He  raged  about,  and  then  they  called  him,  and  he 
came  to  his  wife  and  grew  silent  in  the  shadow  of  death. 
Unity  passed  away  peacefully,  with  her  husband's  left 
arm  round  her  and  her  hand  in  Martin's. 

She  died  dumb. 


BOOK  IV 


CHAPTER  I 

The  petrific  hands  of  frost  were  laid  on  Dartmoor  in 
the  winter  that  saw  Unity  Ouldsbroom  die.  The  waste 
was  frozen  to  its  heart,  and  days  of  low,  weak  sunshine 
and  nights  of  starry  cold  followed  monotonously  upon 
each  other.  By  iU  chance,  little  work  called  for  Philip's 
hand  to  do,  and  he  had  the  more  leisure  to  feed  on  misery. 

The  man  suffered  as  he  had  not  suffered  until  now. 
His  nature  was  such  that  remorse  ate  him  alive.  He 
could  not  bear  the  sight  of  his  fellows,  and  spent  most  of 
his  time  roaming  the  hibernal  wilderness  alone.  He 
flouted  the  harsh  cold,  and  would  have  been  well  content 
to  perish.  The  thought  of  self-destruction,  indeed, 
haunted  him,  and  he  came  near  it  more  than  once.  He 
lost  all  touch  with  life.  There  seemed  a  barrier  lifted 
between  him  and  reality.  He  moved  in  a  dream;  he 
could  not  hear  voices ;  his  son  and  the  folk  of  Hartland 
were  called  upon  to  thrust  his  knife  and  fork  into  his 
hands  at  meal-times  and  to  tell  him  the  hour  was  come 
for  going  to  bed.  A  woman,  one  Martha  White,  his 
wife's  right  hand  at  Hartland  for  many  years,  had  most 
power  over  him.  He  associated  her  with  Unity.  He 
skulked  far  from  all  human  habitations  and  exhibited 
shame. 

"When  he  met  tramps  upon  the  roads — strange  men — 
he  fell  into  speech  with  them,  poured  scorn  and  loathing 
upon  himself,  told  them  that  he  was  a  murderer,  and 
explained  how  the  crime  had  been  committed.    Then  he 

325 


326  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

would  give  them  money  and  stride  awa.y  and  leave  them 
staring.  In  time  he  sought  these  wanderers  and  won  a 
strange  satisfaction  from  revealing  to  them  all  that  he 
had  done  and  suffered.  Sometimes  another  mood  swept 
over  him;  then  he  shook  his  fists  at  the  sky  and  cursed 
the  unconscious  universe  and  the  gods  supposed  to  con- 
trol it. 

On  a  day  when  the  world  was  white  with  frost,  all 
roseal  under  the  risen  sun,  Philip  went  out  into  the  Moor. 
The  very  spirit  of  light  glittered  from  the  facets  of  the 
ice  crystals  and  flashed  for  miles  upon  the  rolling  earth 
around  him.  Cast  out  of  the  east,  a  horizontal  radiance 
lit  the  Moor  and  touched  each  candid  hill  with  crimson. 
This  splendour  faded  into  pale  gold  as  the  sun  climbed 
a  cloudless  sky.  But  deep  blue  shadows  brooded  in  the 
valleys,  and  Philip's  own  shade,  cast  forth  before  him, 
struck  darkness  along  his  shining  way.  He  went  up 
over  Broad  Down,  then  turned  towards  the  west  and 
tramped  heedless  along,  for  the  earth  was  hard  as  iron, 
and  might  be  traversed  with  safety  anywhere  save  upon 
the  quaking  hearts  of  moss-clad  bogs  that  never  froze. 

Mapped  with  dry-built  walls,  ancient  broker  reaves, 
tracklines,  dykes  and  boundaries  of  old-time  miners,  the 
white  hills  exhibited  a  network  of  man's  industry 
stretched  over  their  bosoms.  Some  of  these  demarcations 
spoke  a  doubtful  history;  some  dated  back  no  further 
than  Norman  mining  grants;  and  some  were  of  yester- 
day. 

Near  the  upper  waters  of  West  Dart,  upon  the  breast 
of  a  lonely  hill,  Ouldsbroom  passed  by  a  ruin,  known  as 
'Brown's  House.'  Local  tradition  declared  that  the 
builder  of  this  dwelling  (sequestered  here  from  the  sight 
of  any  other  roof-tree)  was  a  jealous  husband  who,  for 
the  green-eyed  passion,  mewed  up  a  lovely  wife  and  suf- 
fered her  existence  to  pass  unseen  in  sadness  away.  Not 
guessing  the  significance  of  this  heap  of  stones  or  its  re- 
lation to  his  own  future,  Philip  went  on.  He  roamed 
without  special  object,  for  his  mind  was  buried  in  a 
project.  Then,  crossing  Dart  and  holding  forward  by 
the  hither  hill,  he  came  upon  Crow  Tor,  and  stopped 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  327 

there.  The  great  mass  stood  sharply  up,  and  at  its  feet 
was  a  frozen  pool.  He  climbed  the  tor,  and  found  upon 
its  head  other  jewels  of  ice,  hard  as  the  granite  that  held 
them. 

It  has  been  noted  that  a  perpendicular  plane  exhibits 
more  of  sublime  force  in  its  contours  than  any  inclined 
one;  and  the  survey  of  rock  forms  will  furnish  further 
proof  that  a  beetling  crag,  a  projecting  shelf,  a  cornice, 
inspire  still  more  active  emotions  of  awe.  Because  in 
presence  of  an  overhanging  precipice  the  law  of  gravity 
is  threatened;  and  though  a  spectator  may  not  consider 
the  fact,  unconsciously  he  feels  it.  Hence,  above  the 
solemnity  of  the  spectacle,  deeper  than  the  grandeur, 
awakes  a  sense  of  possible  peril;  and  nature's  threaten- 
ing frown  upon  some  cliff-face  imparts  an  added  instinct 
of  jeopardy  to  the  first  homage  at  its  wonder.  We  know 
that  there  is  an  endowment  of  these  giants  to  fall  un- 
timely; that  their  occasional  destiny  is  to  slay  man. 

Crow  Tor,  in  its  wild  and  lonely  glen,  served  well  to 
illustrate  this  fact.  On  a  bog-foundered  slope  above  the 
gorges  of  Dart  in  mid-Moor  it  stands,  and  seen  afar  from 
beneath  Wistman's  Wood,  ascends  as  a  prominent  land- 
mark among  the  hills.  In  form,  at  this  remote  range, 
it  suggests  some  mighty  saurian  or  hump-backed  snail, 
creeping  aloft  from  its  lair  in  the  marshes;  while  ob- 
served at  hand,  the  tor  presents  an  irregular,  huge  mass 
of  granite  piled  forty  feet  above  the  earth,  cleft,  torn, 
and  weathered  from  base  to  crown.  Upon  one  side  the 
ledges  overhang  heavily  and  shut  the  sky  from  any  who 
walk  beneath  them ;  the  summit  mounts  northerly  of  this 
pent-house;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  mass  is  a  little 
plateau  of  vegetation,  dwarfed  almost  to  a  carpet  by  its 
elevation  and  the  ceaseless  pressure  of  great  winds.  Like  a 
green  cushion  on  a  great  grey  throne,  here  spread  the 
close,  springy  textures  of  whortleberry  and  moss,  grasses 
and  heather.  The  place  is  starred  with  golden  potentilla 
in  summer-time,  and  chance  flowers,  little  to  be  expected, 
lift  their  nodding  chimes  in  the  late  spring ;  for  a  colony 
of  bluebells  flourishes  aloft  upon  this  vantage  ground 
above  the  world,  and  makes  a  scented  company,  unseen, 


328  THE    THIEF   OP    VIRTUE 

unknown,  where  they  nod  and  dance  to  the  buffet  of 
vernal  winds. 

This  spot,  though  uplifted  in  the  midst  of  the  tor, 
might  easily  be  approached,  and  Philip  Ouldsbroom 
climbed  it  now,  sat  down  there,  clasped  his  hands  be- 
tween his  knees  and  stared  before  him.  His  Dionysian 
neck,  ripe  lips,  and  plump  hands,  were  changed  from 
their  old,  rich  fulness.  His  chops  had  thinned,  and  the 
white  hair  on  them  was  also  thinned;  his  nape  had 
grown  wrinkled  under  reticulations  of  countless  fine 
lines,  that  ran  into  each  other  and  branched  and  ram- 
ified every  way  over  its  red  surface.  His  mouth  was 
little  altered,  save  that  a  vanished  tooth  or  two  had 
broken  its  firm  lines  by  withdrawing  the  internal  sup- 
port; but  his  hands  told  of  withering  age;  their  fleshi- 
ness had  shrunk;  their  moisture  was  lessened;  the  veins 
stood  out  corded  on  the  atrophied  muscles  beneath;  the 
skin  grew  drier  and  tighter. 

He  stared  at  the  world ;  but  he  saw  neither  the  plastic 
work  of  Nature,  in  the  great  hog-backed  hills  before  his 
eyes,  nor  her  glyphic  art,  where  through  the  centuries, 
with  chisels  of  frost  and  lightning,  she  had  sculptured 
this  granite  colossus  that  now  supported  him. 

He  thought  to  destroy  himself,  for  life  seemed  no 
longer  tolerable.  He  argued  fantastically  with  his  soul, 
as  he  had  often  argued  with  wayside  wanderers  since  his 
wife's  death.  He  was  a  murderer,  and  the  State  should 
pay  him  a  murderer's  fee.  'Here  be  I  that  have  earned 
hanging — why  for  don't  they  hang  me?'  Some  had 
laughter  at  the  question;  some  had  shrunk  from  him  in 
fear  that  they  walked  beside  a  madman.  For  a  time  his 
wits  were  on  the  razor-edge;  then  he  grew  sane,  and  to- 
day he  was  affirmed  to  act  and  make  an  end  of  living. 

While  he  cast  about  for  the  means,  Philip's  name  was 
on  the  lips  of  other  men.  At  the  'Warren  House'  Mr. 
Twigg  sat  behind  his  bar  and  talked  to  Peter  Culme  and 
Jonathan  French  from  Teign  Head.  As  they  spoke  to- 
gether, Martin  Ouldsbroom  rode  to  the  door,  alighted, 
made  fast  his  horse  and  entered. 

He  was  dressed  in  black,  save  for  his  cap,  which  bore 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  329 

the  colours  of  his  school  and  made  him  look  youthful 
still.    He  was  wearing  it  out. 

"We're  heartening  Mr.  Twigg  here,"  explained  Peter. 
' '  The  rheumatism  have  got  into  him  something  shocking, 
and  I,  that  know  it  to  the  marrow  in  my  bones,  be  telling 
him  of  a  very  good  physic  what  one  of  they  fishermen 
sent  me  back-along.  And  he's  going  to  buy  a  bottle. 
And  I  'm  wishful  to  say  that  we  was  terrible  sorry  to  hear 
of  your  trouble,  Martin  Ouldsbroom,  though  never  a 
woman  was  called  away  in  a  hurry  that  left  the  world 
readier  to  leave  it  than  your  mother,  I  'm  sure. ' ' 
' '  She  was  ready  enough,  Peter. ' ' 

"I'm  afraid  now  your  poor  father ?" 

"Yes;  he's  feeling  it  very  cruel.  He  was  bound  to 
feel  it,  seeing  how  it  happened.  He's  got  a  kind  heart 
but  no  religion.  There's  nothing  to  be  done  for  him, 
because  he  refuses  to  listen.  We  must  leave  him  to  his 
Maker." 

"Job's  his  book,"  declared  Twigg.  "He  feeds  on  it 
and  will  say  pages.  'Twas  Barbara  Hext  led  him  to  that. 
I  wish  it  had  pleased  the  watching  Lord  to  put  the  Gospel 
into  him  instead.  Job's  well  enough  in  its  place  and 
time;  but  'tis  cold  comfort  for  the  bruised  heart.  I've 
steadied  a  hopeful,  puffed-up  spirit  with  it  before  to-day ; 
but  a  man  in  your  father's  case  wants  the  cheerful 
whisper  of  angel  voices,  and  his  face  lifted  up  to  the 
place  where  there  shall  be  no  sun  and  no  moon. ' ' 
"I  can  do  nothing  to  make  him  any  more  at  peace." 
"He's  in  the  Lord's  hand;  and  'twill  take  even  the 
Almighty  power  all  its.  time  to  hold  him  now.  Nothing 
would  surprise  me.  In  fact,  I've  run  over  the  things  he 
might  do.  If  'twould  bring  him  to  his  knees,  then  your 
mother-  wouldn  't  have  given  her  life  in  vain ;  for  greater 
love  hath  no  man  than  this :  to  lay  down  his  life  for  his 
friend;  how  much  more  a  wife  for  her  spouse!  But 
there 's  no  sign  that  the  Spirit  is  working  in  him  yet. ' ' 

"There  isn't,  Mr.  Twigg,"  answered  Martin.  "Or  if 
it  is  so,  the  work 's  going  on  out  of  sight. ' ' 

"I  was  exalted  in  heart  to  see  you  at  worship  on  Sun- 
day, however,  along  with  the  people  from  Stannon,"  de- 


330  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

clared  Gregory.  "And  they  new  folk — ^the  Coplestons 
from  Dury  farm — was  also  there,  so  'twas  a  glad  day  for 
the  chosen.  Have  you  had  a  tell  with  Pastor  Bewes  yet ''. 
You'll  find  him  a  very  eager  and  hopeful  man.  He 
might  help  you  with  your  father. ' ' 

"He's  got  his  reverend  eye  on  Mr.  Copleston's  daugh- 
ter," asserted  Jonathan  French;  "and  that's  why  they 
Coplestons  have  turned  Little  Baptists.  Farmer's  very 
anxious  to  get  his  maiden  oft',  as  she's  getting  a  bit  too 
far  past  thirty  for  safety.  And  I  dare  say  'twill  happen 
now. ' ' 

They  talked;  Martin  discussed  the  use  of  the  Little 
Baptists,  and  learned  from  Gregory  their  tenets  on  cer- 
tain matters  of  dogma  and  the  sacraments.  He  was  glad 
to  join  them,  and  he  considered  other  organisations  also 
that  appealed  to  him.  The  Order  of  Rechabites  espe- 
cially attracted  Martin.  He  thought  that  by  joining  it  he 
might  help  his  father  toward  more  sobriety.  Philip  had 
taken  no  strong  drink  at  home  since  his  wife  died,  but 
he  had  once  returned  to  Hartland  intoxicated  since  her 
funeral. 

Now  the  boy  went  back,  and,  having  stabled  his  horse, 
came  suddenly  round  the  corner  of  a  barn  upon  Philip. 
The  farmer  carried  a  rope.  His  hat  was  off;  his  bald 
brows  shone,  and  he  was  clearly  labouring  under  some 
fierce  excitation.  He  hastened  past,  and  Martin  called 
to  him. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  father?" 

Philip  turned.  It  seemed  that  he  heard  the  voice,  but 
not  the  words. 

"What  d'you  want  prying  after  me?"  he  asked.  He 
was  perspiring  freely,  and  a  gentle  steam  rose  from  his 
head. 

Martin  repeated  his  question,  and  the  other  stared  and 
laughed. 

"Not  you — no,  you  can't.  Perhaps  you  might  though 
— if  you  thought  'twas  your  duty.  Duty-— eh?  'Tis  a 
word  that  always  sounds  like  a  rat-trap  going  off  to  my 
ear.  No,  I  '11  not  ax  you ;  but  since  they  as  ought  to  do 
it  wont,  then  I'll  do  it  out  of  hand." 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  331 

''Do  what,  father?" 

"  '  Do  what,  father  ? '  Why,  hang  a  dog,  father — hang 
a  useless,  worthless  dog  that's  lived  too  long  and  done 
evil  too  long. ' ' 

He  shook  the  rope  and  went  on.  Once  he  looked  back, 
but  Martin  made  no  movement  and  did  not  see  the  other 
turn  to  regard  him.  When  he  was  gone  the  younger,  not 
a  little  puzzled,  stood  still  and  wondered  at  this  thing. 
His  father  had  been  drinking.  His  feet  moved  unsteadily 
and  his  face  was  red.  It  happened  there  was  actually  a 
troublesome  dog  on  the  farm.  The  creature  had  been 
badly  broken  in,  and  Tiger  vowed  that  he  ran  sheep. 
There  was  talk  of  shooting  him,  and  Philip's  voice  alone 
had  saved  the  brute  thus  long.  Yet  now  Martin  sup- 
posed that  his  father  must  be  bent  on  destroying  this  dog. 
He  reflected  for  some  minutes,  and  then,  in  a  flash,  the 
truth  of  Ouldsbroom  's  saying  burst  upon  him.  He  stag- 
gered and  gasped.  For  a  moment  his  soul  turned  to  ice 
and  his  feet  to  lead.  He  felt  torpified  and  fettered  in 
heart  and  limb  before  this  horror.  Then  his  conscience 
stabbed  him  for  an  instant's  delay.  He  rushed  round 
the  corner  of  the  byre  beside  which  he  stood;  he  ran  for- 
ward, shouting  with  all  his  might ;  he  hastened  and  cried 
out,  looked  into  a  barn  and  then  proceeded  to  other 
shippons.  But  Philip  was  not  visible,  neither  did  any- 
body else  answer  his  clamour. 

A  few  moments  later,  however,  he  saw  Tiger  talking 
to  his  master  a  hundred  yards  away  beside  the  Moor- 
gate,  on  the  north  of  the  farm.  Neither  of  them  marked 
or  heard  him;  but  from  the  angle  of  a  toolhouse  he 
watched  them  now,  and  did  not  lose  sight  of  them.  For 
twenty  minutes  they  stood  and  spoke  together,  and 
Tiger  was  earnest  and  minatory  in  his  manner,  while 
Ouldsbroom  displayed  wild  gestures  and  a  fierce  de- 
meanour. Then  the  elder  seemed  suddenly  to  crumple 
up  and  shrink  and  grow  old.  Tiger  took  his  rope  away 
from  him,  and  they  returned  side  by  side  to  the  farm- 
yard. Toward  the  end  of  their  argument,  Philip  had 
pointed  wdth  scorn  where  he  and  Martin  met,  and  the 
watcher  guessed  that  he  himself  was  the  matter  between 


332  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

them.  But  later  on,  when  he  met  Tiger  alone  and  strove 
to  learn  what  had  passed,  the  elder  was  evasive,  and 
answered  merely  that  he  had  met  Mr.  Ouldsbroom  in  a 
state  of  great  excitement  and  fury,  and  that  he  had  pre- 
vailed with  him  to  return  home  and  not  go  into  the  Moor 
at  that  time. 

"He  was  out  over  this  morning,"  explained  Tiger, 
' '  and  he  came  home  terrible  cold,  and  got  drinking  rather 
too  deep  on  an  empty  stomach.  I  doubt  he'll  be  all  right 
presently.    He 's  gone  in  the  house  to  sleep  it  off. ' ' 

But  Tiger  erred  in  both  his  statements.  His  master 
had  often  spoken  of  self-destruction  before  this  occasion, 
and  he  had  gaiessed,  on  seeing  Philip  hurrying  off,  exactly 
what  the  frantic  and  drunken  man  was  about.  He  had 
taxed  him,  then  stopped  him,  and  then  listened  to 
Philip's  account  of  his  meeting  with  Martin. 

Concerning  the  second  assertion,  Ouldsbroom  had,  in- 
deed, withdrawn  to  his  chamber,  but  not  to  sleep.  As  his 
mind  grew  clearer  and  the  first  strange  sense  of  having 
returned  to  life  by  a  short  cut  passed  from  him,  he  fell 
back  upon  his  speech  with  his  son;  and  the  more  he 
thought  upon  it,  the  more  terrific  it  appeared.  Swiftly 
it  bulked  into  the  most  awful  experience  of  his  life.  Its 
significance  appalled  him  for  some  hours.  He  glared  with 
great  agony  of  spirit  at  the  wall  before  his  eyes,  and  re- 
hearsed to  himself  the  thing  that  he  believed  had  hap- 
pened to  him. 

"My  son — my  first  and  only  son — and  I  tell  him  that 
I  am  going  to  hang  myself,  and  he  lets  me  go.  Lets  me 
go  to  do  it.  Doesn't  seek — doesn't  care — waits  and  wishes 
me  dead.  To  let  me  go  was  murder.  I  'd  have  murdered 
him  belike  if  he  'd  tried  to  stop  me ;  but  why  for  didn  't 
he  try?  Didn't  the  blood  in  his  veins  shout  to  him  to 
save  his  father?  Nay — 'twas  dumb  and  cold.  He  stood 
and  let  me  pass  by.  He  wouldn't  have  cut  the  rope  if 
he'd  found  me  twisting  on  it.  A  man  can  endure  no 
more  than  that.  'Tis  the  end,  and  I  wish  to  God  I  hadn  't 
met  t'other,  for  I'd  be  out  of  it  this  minute  if  I  hadn't." 

He  sat  upon  the  side  of  his  bed,  sank  his  head  upon  his 
knees  and  wept  the  first  tears  of  his  senility. 


CHAPTER  II 

OuLDSBEOOM  coiilcl  iiot  couceal  this  new  grievance,  though 
his  was  a  sort  of  heart  only  to  be  wounded  mortally  from 
inside.  Hope  healed  most  hurts,  even  while  the  scars 
might  remain.  As  a  child  Martin  tortured  him ;  but  the 
torture  was  tuned  by  time  into  a  thing  bearable.  Under 
the  last  torment,  however,  he  would  not  rest.  For  some 
days  he  fumed  in  silence,  then  an  accident  of  passing 
difference  with  Martin  unsealed  his  lips  and  he  burst  out 
upon  his  wrongs. 

' '  You  saw  me  going  to  my  death,  and  lifted  no  hand  to 
save  me !  You  knew  the  thing  I  meant  to  do  in  a  dark 
hour,  and  you  let  me  do  it ;  and  doubtless  you  was  cruel 
sorry  when  you  found  that  another  had  come  between. 
And  now  you  are  my  son  no  more — mark  that!  Never 
again  will  I  so  much  as  call  you  son,  or  think  of  you  as 
son!" 

Then  the  younger  explained  patiently,  fully,  thank- 
fully. 

' '  Did  I  ever  tell  you  a  lie,  father  ? "  he  asked.  * '  Right 
well  you  know  I  never  did.  And  before  you  judge  me, 
hear  the  truth.  I  can't  force  you  to  believe  it;  but  if  a 
solemn  oath  will  make  it  truer  to  you,  then  I'll  swear 
before  my  God  it's  true.  I'm  thankful  you  spoke  upon 
this  matter  and  let  out  the  dreadful  thing  you've  had  in 
your  heart  against  me.  I  thought  you  meant  what  you 
said — I  thought  you  were  going  to  kill  a  dog — ^that  you 
were  going  to  hang  that  useless  cur  we've  got  here  now. 
And  I  stood,  after  you  had  gone,  and  wondered  why  you 
meant  to  do  it  in  such  a  clumsy  way.  Not  till  I'd  done 
some  thinking  did  the  real  meaning  of  what  you  had  said 
come  home  to  me.    Then  for  a  moment  I  was  frozen,  body 

333 


334  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

and  soul,  with  terror,  and  then  I  ran  after  you — I  ran 
after  you,  and  searched  right  and  left,  and  shouted  as 
loud  as  I  knew  how.  A  minute  later  I  saw  you  with 
Tiger,  and,  well  knowing  that  Tiger  would  do  what  he 
might,  I  hid  and  watched.  And  if  you'd  gone  on  and 
left  him,  I  should  have  followed  after  you;  but  I  saw 
you  coming  back,  so  I  went  away.  That's  the  truth,  and 
I  've  hungered  to  speak  to  you  since  about  it,  but  I  didn  't 
dare.  But  now  I'm  very  thankful  you  have  spoke  about 
it,  for  if  I  had  known  this  awful  thought  was  in  your 
mind,  it  would  have  drove  me  mad." 

He  stopped,  and  the  farmer  looked  at  him  in  doubt. 

"Didn't  Tiger  say  nothing  then?" 

"No;  I  gave  him  the  chance,  but  he  never  told  me 
anything. ' ' 

' '  Of  course  not !  You  '11  hear  no  word  of  my  mistakes 
from  him.  You  swear  and  swear  double  that  you've  told 
me  truth?" 

"Yes,  I  will;  and  'tis  a  cruel  and  awful  thing  to  me, 
father,  if  you  doubt  it.    You  can't  do  that?" 

"Then  I'll  believe  you.  Martin — and  thankful  to — 
thankful  to  believe  you.  I  can  almost  find  it  in  me  to  be 
glad  this  have  happened  for  the  sake  of  finding  I'm 
wrong.  To  let  your  own  father  put  a  rope — no,  no ;  never 
could  my  Unity's  son  have  done  it.  I  forgot  you  was 
her  son.  I  forget  many  things.  But  there  'tis,  we'm 
reconciled.  We've  come  together  close — eh?  You  care 
about  me,  Martin?  You  don't  wdsh  me  away,  or  any- 
thing like  that  ? " 

The  youth  assured  Philip  that  he  eared  much  for  him 
and  Avas  concerned  very  deeply  for  his  welfare. 

"  'Twas  almost  the  last  thing  mother  said  to  me,  to 
care  for  you  and  seek  to  please  you, ' '  he  declared. 

A  riotous  amity  sprang  up  in  the  elder.  He  shook 
Martin's  hand  thrice ;  he  spoke  hopefully  of  their  future, 
then  he  shook  hands  again." 

"Shoulder  to  shoulder  we'll  work,"  he  said.  "I'm 
ten  year  younger  since  I  've  heard  you  speak !  I  'm  sorry 
to  God  I  ever  thought  of  doing  any  such  thing.  'Twas 
a  base  doubt  I  harboured  against  you,  and  'tis  one  more 


THE    TPIIEF    OF   VIRTUE  335 

grief  to  me,  along  with  all  my  other  griefs,  that  I  could 
have  sunk  to  do  it.  But  I'll  make  it  up  to  you.  I'll 
trust  you  with  my  money ;  I  know  what  a  wise  chap  you 
are."* 

So  he  talked,  and  from  that  day  there  ensued  a  period 
of  peace  and  cheerfulness  at  Hartland.  Philip,  to  Mar- 
tin 's  secret  discomfort,  often  dragged  him  away  for  long 
rides  over  the  Moor.  For  a  while  he  exhibited  a  desire 
for  Martin's  company  at  unseasonable  times;  but  the 
gratification  of  this  whim  soon  killed  it.  Nothing  could 
break  down  the  radical  disparity  of  their  natures,  am- 
bitions, and  opinions.  Philip,  therefore,  summoned  the 
lad  less  often,  went  upon  his  business  or  pleasure  alone 
again,  left  Martin  to  control  and  direct.  He  rarely 
criticised  now,  and  if  he  grumbled  occasionally  to  Tiger, 
the  latter  was  usually  able  to  justify  Martin  and  prove 
him  in  the  right. 

Indeed,  the  hands  of  the  farm  were  well  content.  If 
they  toiled  harder,  there  was  so  much  the  more  to  show 
for  it.  And  Martin  himself  set  the  example,  for  he 
proved  a  very  steady  and  keen  worker.  He  took  the 
opportunity  of  his  father's  prolonged  absences  and  in- 
difference to  get  a  firm  grip  of  affairs ;  and  when  Philip, 
by  gradual  stages,  recovered  in  a  measure  from  his  loss 
and  began  to  show  renewed  interest  in  life,  he  found 
much  in  Martin's  hands  that  could  not  again  be  taken 
out  of  them. 

He  accepted  the  situation  with  tranquillity,  and  only 
differed  at  minor  points.  These  Martin  readily  con- 
ceded, and  a  sort  of  lifeless  understanding  subsisted  be- 
tween them.  Philip  rarely  praised  the  innovations;  he 
felt  it  enough  that  he  should  suffer  them  without  pro- 
test; while  Martin  had  long  ceased  to  hope  for  Oulds- 
broom's  commendation  on  the  farm,  but,  none  the  less, 
went  his  way  with  resolution.  He  was  haunted  by  the 
fear  that  Philip  might  at  any  moment  assert  authority 
and  overturn  his  cherished  schemes  and  improvements; 
this,  however,  did  not  happen,  and  as  time  went  on  he 
gained  confidence  and  felt  his  way  to  further  changes. 

Upon  some  subjects  they  were  at  one ;  and  these  agree- 


336  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

ments  lessened  the  strain  on  other  occasions,  when  it 
threatened  to  reach  a  breaking  point. 

After  her  death,  Unity  was  elevated  and  extolled  by 
Philip  at  all  times.  When  a  year  had  passed,  and  he 
could  again  endure  to  speak  about  her  to  the  people,  he 
did  so  without  ceasing,  and  wearied  his  hearers  in  long- 
drawn  praises  of  her  wisdom  and  kindness,  her  patience 
and  perspicacity.  But  one  alone  tired  not  of  this  sub- 
ject; one  alone  rejoiced  when  the  topic  was  Unity,  and 
never  found  Philip  tedious  upon  that  theme.  Martin 
dearly  loved  to  talk  about  his  mother  and  listen  concern- 
ing her.  Of  the  things  that  she  had  done  at  Hartland  and 
the  ordinances  that  she  had  laid  down,  he  sought  to  alter 
none.  Her  name  stood  for  all  that  was  wisest  and  best 
in  his  knowledge,  and  he  revered  it.  He  had  suffered 
when  his  mother  died;  and  it  might  have  been  expected 
that  his  grief  would  have  drawn  him  somewhat  closer  to 
his  fancied  father ;  but  this  it  did  not  do.  He  could  not 
forget  how  Unity  came  to  her  end ;  he  lacked  imagination 
to  judge  fully  that  by  so  much  the  more  terrible  must 
be  her  husband's  agony  and  grief;  he  held  Philip's 
suffering  to  be  stained  with  remorse  and  of  a  colour  less 
pure,  a  depth  less  profound,  than  his  own. 

Philip  rode  much  at  this  season,  and  found  himself  the 
better  for  it.  During  the  year  that  followed  his  wife's 
death,  he  was  more  temperate ;  then  the  habit  of  drinking 
gained  upon  him  again,  and  brought  evidences  of  a 
weakening  will.  He  came  home  one  day  with  a  new 
horse,  and  Martin  was  summoned  to  see  it. 

" Five-and-f orty  pound  he've  cost,"  said  Philip — "a 
stiff  figure,  but  not  dear.  I  've  long  had  my  eye  on  him. 
The  very  hoss  for  me — well  up  to  my  weight,  and  can 
carry  a  drop  of  beer  too,  if  need  be.  And  I  wish  you'd 
get  yourself  a  new  hoss,  Martin.  'Tis  time  you  had  one. 
Christmas  be  at  hand,  and  I've  got  a  present  for  you  as 
you  may  hear  about  now  so  well  as  later. ' ' 

' '  I  don 't  want  a  present,  father. ' ' 

"Nonsense  and  stuff!  Of  course,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  all  mine  is  yours,  and  I'm  sure  all  yours  be 
mine;  but  a  present's  a  present.    We've  had  a  very  tidy 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  337 

year,  thanks  a  bit  to  you,  and  I'm  going  to  give  you  a 
hundred  pound  for  yourself. 

Martin  was  moved  at  the  size  of  the  sum.  He  did  not 
decline  it,  for  he  felt  that  it  would  be  safer  with  him  than 
in  his  father's  hands.  Moreover,  he  knew  of  an  excellent 
purpose  to  which  it  might  be  put.  There  was  a  cottage 
of  four  rooms  with  half  an  acre  of  neglected  garden  at 
Postbridge,  and  he  had  long  desired  to  buy  it.  The 
instinct  of  his  mind  hungered  for  possessions,  and  now, 
together  with  his  own  savings,  this  great  gift  made  the 
purchase  possible.  The  farmer  asked  him  what  he  should 
do  with  the  money,  and  was  pleased  when  he  replied. 

"Can't  begin  too  early.  Go  ahead,  and  you'll  buy  up 
all  that's  to  be  bought  of  the  village  afore  you're  my 
age.  House  property — eh  ?  Well,  why  not  ?  The  people 
must  have  houses.  I've  been  leading  man  here  these 
good  few  years  now;  but  you'll  take  my  place  soon,  I 
warrant  you ! ' ' 

''I  shall  spend  twenty  pounds  on  repairs,"  explained 
Martin;  "and  then  I  shall  put  up  the  rent  by  thirty 
shillings  a  year." 

"Well  done  you !  A  landlord  afore  you'm  twenty-one ! 
'Tis  your  mother  in  you — not  me.  'Tis  her  care  and 
cleverness  and  rare  trick  of  looking  ahead  and  never 
putting  all  the  eggs  in  one  basket.  She'd  be  terrible 
proud  to  hear  tell  of  this." 

"What  credit  belongs  to  it  is  yours  as  well  as  mine," 
answered  the  other.  "  'Tis  true  that  I've  saved  up  and 
hoarded  very  close  since  I  was  a  little  chap;  but  with- 
out this  splendid  gift,  father,  I  should  have  lost  the 
chance. ' ' 

Philip,  however,  refused  any  praise  in  the  matter. 

' '  Not  so, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Why,  I  didn  't  so  much  as  know 
the  house  was  going  begging;  and  lucky  for  you  I  did 
not — else  I  might  have  swooped  down  and  bought  it 
myself.  And  as  for  more  rent,  you'll  have  to  wait  your 
time  for  that.  They  old  people,  Mercy  Maine  and  her 
mother — sixty  and  eighty-three  are  their  ages.  You 
can't  shift  them  while  the  gammer  lives,  and  you  can't 
ax  'em  a  higher  rent.     'Twouldn't  be  proper." 

22 


338  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"But  their  lease  expires  next  Lady  Day." 

''Damn  their  lease!  They  must  stop,  I  tell  you.  But 
leave  it  for  the  moment.  We'm  all  cheerful  and  gay 
to-night.  I  know  as  you'd  never  do  anything  improper 
—else  I'd " 

The  subject  was  dropped;  but  in  a  week  Martin  had 
bought  the  house,  and  a  secret  throb  of  satisfaction 
warmed  his  heart  and  lighted  his  eye  henceforth  when  he 
passed  it.  From  that  day  he  Avould  often  speak  gently 
of  'my  house'  to  Minnie  Crymes  and  other  sympathetic 
listeners. 

Martin  frequently  visited  Stannon,  and  between  him 
and  Gertrude  Crymes  obtained  the  closest  friendship. 
He  brought  to  her  not  a  few  problems,  and  she  was  able 
often  to  help  him  in  the  conduct  of  domestic  affairs  at 
home.  These  had  long  remained  in  the  hands  of  his 
mother's  old  servant,  Martha  White,  but  now  Martin, 
true  to  himself,  looked  into  household  matters,  and  found 
no  little  waste  and  loss.  He  mentioned  the  situation  to 
his  father  and  suggested  a  change,  but  Philip  would  not 
hear  of  it. 

"If  she  was  good  enough  for  your  mother,  she's  good 
enough  for  us,"  he  declared.  "A  better,  honester  thing 
don't  go  on  two  legs,  and  I  won't  have  her  away.  You 
mind  your  own  business  and  let  her  mind  hers.  I've  no 
patience  with  men- folk  as  poke  and  pry  into  women's 
work.  You  be  the  sort  as  would  waste  half  an  hour 
cheapening  a  bunch  of  carrots.  Take  life  larger. 
Martha's  very  well,  or  my  wife  would  never  have  stood 
her  for  fifteen  years. ' ' 

Martin  brought  this  difficulty  to  Stannon,  but  Ger- 
trude could  not  help  him. 

' '  Come  a  few  years  she  '11  be  too  old  to  go  to  market ; 
then  you'll  have  to  get  another,"  she  explained. 

Her  eyes  rested  on  Minnie  as  she  spoke.  There  was  a 
ready  and  an  easy  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  but  as  yet 
the  young  man  failed  to  perceive  it.  He  and  Minnie 
were  close  friends,  and  she  loved  him  in  secret.  Others 
had  courted  her,  but  they  were  shadows  to  the  substance 
of  Martin  in  her  eyes.     She  waited  patiently,  and  hope 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  339 

hid  in  the  core  of  her  heart;  but  she  let  no  gleam  of 
it  appear,  and  would  never  discuss  the  young  man  even 
with  her  mother.  Yet  both  her  parents  knew  well  how 
it  Avas  with  her,  and  sometimes  they  permitted  themselves 
impatient  speech  upon  the  subject  when  secluded. 

This  happened  on  the  night  after  Martin's  complaint 
concerning  Martha,  and  Quiuton  Crymes,  fired  by  in- 
spiration, advised  a  definite  deed. 

"  'Tis  clear  we  can't  bring  him  to  the  scratch,  but 
there's  one  who  might;  there's  one  who's  only  less  fond 
of  our  Minnie  than  w^e  are  ourselves,  and  that's  Martin's 
father.  A  week  ago — no  more — he  was  grumbling  to  me 
that  his  boy  didn't  bring  a  wife  to  Hartland.  'Here's 
Tiger  fixed  up,  and  to  be  wedded  inside  a  year,'  says 
Phil;  'but  my  frosty  chap  goes  on  without  a  girl,  as  if 
he  'd  got  no  blood  in  his  veins  nor  heart  in  his  body.    And 

well  I  know  all  the  time  he's — he's '  something.     I 

forgot  what  'twas  he  said;  but  he  meant  that  Martin 
thought  the  world  of  Minnie  in  his  chilly  fashion.  I 
changed  the  subject,  and  I  'm  sorry  now  I  did  do.  There 
'tis,  however,  in  a  nutshell.  Phil  can  speak,  though  we 
can't;  and  he  would  be  only  too  glad  if  it  came  about. 
He 's  wanted  it  to  happen  for  years. ' ' 

"  'Tis  far  too  perilous  a  thing,"  answered  his  wife. 
"To  interfere  in  such  a  matter  never  could  come  to 
good.  Martin's  slow  but  sure.  If  there  was  another  girl 
in  the  wind  'twould  be  different,  but  there  is  not.  Let 
him  take  his  time.  Would  he  sit  beside  her  to  chapel 
every  Sunday  of  his  life,  just  like  Henry  Birdwood  used 
to  sit  beside  his  mother,  if  he  hadn't  got  his  ideas  about 
the  future?" 

But  Quinton  Crymes  did  not  argue  the  subject.  He 
matured  a  plan,  and  the  next  time  that  he  met  with 
Philip  he  spoke.  He  overtook  Ouldsbroom  on  the  way 
home  from  Moreton,  and  told  his  tale  to  willing  ears. 

' '  Nothing  better  could  have  fallen  out, ' '  said  the  mas- 
ter of  Hartland.  "In  fact,  the  wonder  is  I  didn't  hit  on 
this  a  bit  sooner.  Not  like  me  to  be  so  dull.  For  three 
year  I've  wanted  for  Martin  to  have  your  girl,  and  I'll 
rub  it  into  him  this  very  night.     What  be  young  chaps 


340  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

made  of  nowadays?  If  I  wasn't  old  enough  to  be  her 
grandfather,  I'd  offer  for  her  myself!  A  sweeter  maid 
don't  live,  and  well  I  know  she  likes  him,  for  haven't  I 
seen  it  in  her  eyes  many  and  many  a  time  when  I  spoke 
his  name?  The  chap  be  one-and-twenty  next  February, 
and  it  shall  be  done." 

"Go  crafty,  however.  'Tis  the  matter  of  old  Martha 
White  put  me  in  mind  of  it.  Martin  says  to  my  wife 
that  Martha  ban't  no  use  and  lets  a  penny  slip  in  every 
shilling  she  handles.  I  don't  know  nothing  about  that, 
but  of  course  if  you  had  a  young  woman  so  clever  as  our 
Minnie  to  reign  over  Martha — why,  'twould  all  be  very 
different,  and  you  'd  get  modern  ideas  and  such  like. ' ' 

"A  very  capital  plan,  Quinton,  and  if  you  hit  on  it 
single-handed,  you're  a  cleverer  man  than  ever  I  thought 
you,"  returned  the  other.  "I'll  keep  quiet  till  Martin 
Avhines  about  Martha's  ways  again,  then  I'll  dash  at  him 
and  see  how  he  takes  it.  His  sort  often  want  a  bit  of 
shoving  forward  where  a  girl's  concerned,  and  I'm  his 
father  and  the  man  to  do  it." 

' '  Don 't  you  saying  nothing  to  my  wife,  however.  She  'd 
never  forgive  me.  But  this  I  '11  tell  you — in  secret,  mind. 
You're  right  about  Minnie  caring  for  him.  She  does — a 
lot.  So  do  we  all  for  that  matter.  He's  very  different 
from  the  rough-and-tumble  sample  of  young  fellows,  and 
of  course  there's  all  the  education  he's  got  behind.  But 
I'm  a  proud  father  also,  Philip,  and  I'll  stand  up  for 
it  that,  good  as  he  is,  my  Minnie's  the  equal  of  him  and 
worthy  of  him  every  way. ' ' 

"Didn't  I  say  so  to  your  wife  two  year  ago?  If  I 
can't  read  a  young  thing,  who  can?  Don't  the  childer 
come  to  me  across  the  road?  Don't  I  understand  'em — 
boy  and  cheel  alike?  She's  a  bowerly  maid,  and  I've 
sworn  that  she  shall  be  my  darter-in-law^ ;  and  what  I 
swear  happens.  Say  no  more.  You'll  hear  further  on 
it  inside  a  fortnight,  or  my  tongue  have  lost  its  cunning. 
Here's  the  'Warren  House.'  Come  in  and  have  a  nip 
along  with  me. " 

Philip  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  when,  some  few 
days  later,  Martin  again  grumbled  at  their  housekeeper's 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  341 

ignorance  of  the  price  of  tea,  Ouldsbroom  startled  him 
by  thrusting  in  upon  the  tenderest  theme. 

"Now,  look  here,  young  shaver,  if  you  want  a  female 
in  this  house  to  please  you,  why  the  devil  don't  you  get 
one?  I  can't  help.  You  know  very  well  that  I've  been 
at  you  afore  to-day  to  fetch  home  a  wife ;  and  you  know 
very  well  that  she'll  be  welcome  as  the  flowers  when  you 
find  her.  I  say  '  find  her, '  but  surely  to  God  she 's  found 
long  ago.  And  don't  let  me  hear  no  more  about  Martha, 
because  the  remedy  be  in  your  hands.  Marry — that's 
what  you've  got  to  do,  and  the  quicker  the  better  for 
my  peace,  if  not  your  own. ' ' 

Tiger  supported  this  attack  heartily,  and  Martin, 
somewhat  flustered,  soon  retreated  before  them  and  made 
an  early  start  for  bed.    Tiger  fired  a  final  shot  after  him. 

"And  don't  you  waste  no  more  time.  You  ain't  the 
only  chap  in  the  world,  and  come  you  wait  a  bit  longer, 
you'll  find  some  more  dashing  blade  swoop  down  and 
take  her  from  under  your  nose ! ' ' 

When  he  was  alone  Martin  turned  the  matter  over  in 
his  mind  and  reflected  upon  it  into  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning.  He  cared  for  Minnie  deeply,  and  in  a  sense 
regarded  her  as  his  own  property.  He  had  done  so  for 
ten  years.  They  had  passed  from  childhood  into  ado- 
lescence together,  and  their  love  grew  into  reality  so 
gradually  that  it  seemed  to  him  it  had  become  a  recog- 
nised state  between  them  without  any  necessity  for  de- 
claring it.  Now,  however,  he  perceived  this  was  not  so. 
If  he  desired  to  marry  Minnie,  he  must  court  her  and 
win  her.  He  knew  that  he  had  won  her  without  need 
for  any  labour.  He  desired  to  marry  her,  and  that  cir- 
cumstance entered  as  a  factor  into  his  plans  for  the 
future;  but  he  had  not  proposed  to  himself  to  do  any 
such  thing  immediately.  Tiger's  last  warning  did  not 
alarm  him.  He  felt  that  Minnie  would  wait  as  long  as 
he  pleased;  but  was  there  any  particular  need  to  wait? 
Might  not  his  father  be  right?  He  pictured  Minnie  at 
Hartland.  He  had  trained  her  in  his  own  opinions,  and 
she  knew  the  value  of  money. 

A  slight  emotion  of  pleasure  awoke  at  the  thought  of 


342  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Minnie  married  to  him.  He  determined  to  see  more  of 
her  for  the  next  few  months.  Then,  if  all  went  well  with 
the  courting,  he  would  formally  ask  her  to  wed. 

Upon  this  decision  he  rose  from  his  couch,  knelt  down 
and  asked  the  blessing  of  Heaven  on  the  thing  that  he 
was  now  to  do.  He  returned  then  to  bed  and  occupied 
the  remainder  of  his  waking  senses  by  planning  the  ar- 
rangements of  Hartland  when  Minnie  should  enter  it. 
'Father  would  have  to  give  up  the  big  bedroom,'  he  re- 
flected. He  also  wondered  whether  Quinton  Crymes 
would  give  his  daughter  any  money.  He  knew  the  finan- 
cial position  of  most  local  people  and  guessed  that  Min- 
nie's father  could  do  but  little  for  her  in  the  matter  of 
dowry. 


CHAPTER  III 

On  the  next  occasion  of  a  walk  with  Martin  Ouldsbroom, 
Minnie  Crymes  found  out  that  a  change  had  come  over 
him.  She  was  a  gentle  girl.  Life  had  offered  no  room 
for  the  fragrant  little  sprig  of  sentiment  that  belonged  to 
her  nature;  but  though  it  could  not  flourish,  it  did  not 
fade.  Flower  of  wonder  and  fruit  of  kindness  were  still 
put  forth  by  it.  She  had  a  heart  for  sorrow  and  her  sym- 
pathy was  ever  ready  for  the  sad.  Many  women  loved 
her  and  she  did  what  little  good  she  might,  suffered  un- 
happy people  gladly  and  lessened  their  grief  where  she 
could.  Upon  her  tender  nature  and  spirit  of  pity  before 
the  grim  truth  of  the  world,  Martin's  strength  and  as- 
surance were  a  precious  influence.  And  now,  as  he  spoke 
with  her  and  she  found  that  his  strength  and  assurance 
for  once  were  gone ;  as  she  heard  his  level  tones  falter ; 
as  she  saw  his  straight  young  glance  tremble  and  fall,  she 
knew  that  at  last  the  amazing  thing,  banished  with 
blushes  from  her  maiden  heart  to  reappear  in  dreams, 
would  soon  be  a  dream  no  more. 

The  youth  himself,  having  given  rein  to  impulse,  found 
all  changed.  Deliberately  he  set  to  work  to  love  Minnie, 
and  in  a  week  Tie  did  love  as  a  man  loves.  Entrance  once 
admitted  to  the  virgin  closes  of  his  heart,  passion  grew 
with  healthy  vigour  and,  for  a  season,  its  fine  luxuriance 
hid  the  permanent  and  indigenous  products  of  that  gar- 
den. Martin  was  in  love,  and  he  came  nearer  to  Philip 
Ouldsbroom  while  the  fever  lasted  than  ever  he  had  come 
before  or  was  likely  to  come  again.  A  decent  humility 
marked  him.  Minnie  had  nothing  to  complain  of.  Until 
the  deed  was  done,  until  she  had  promised  to  marry  him 

343 


344  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

when  he  pleased,  until  she  had  felt  his  fresh,  warm 
kisses,  nothing  could  have  been  more  beautiful  and  per- 
fect to  her  than  her  lover's  way.  He  surprised  her.  He 
revealed  a  tenderness,  a  quickness,  a  devotion  that  even 
her  worship  and  affection  had  never  guessed  at.  The 
sleight  put  upon  him  by  his  passion  transformed  him ;  he 
did  things,  said  things,  even  thought  things  that  belonged 
to  his  condition,  not  his  character. 

The  result  was  joy  for  several  different  people;  but 
they  made  the  mistake  of  supposing  that  the  change  was 
radical. 

There  came  the  day  when  Martin  asked  Minnie  to 
marry  him.  Fierce  storms  were  breaking  over  the  Moor, 
and  they  stood  together  in  a  shed  at  Stannon,  waiting  for 
a  tempest  to  pass  by.  Martin  had  come  to  fetch  Minnie, 
that  she  might  drink  tea  with  his  father  at  Hartland. 

"He  says  that  he  hasn't  seen  you  for  a  week  and  can't 
go  any  longer  without  a  sight  of  you.  He's  been  in  the 
house  now  for  ten  days  with  a  cough  and  a  bad  chest. 
But  he's  nearly  all  right  at  last  and  means  to  be  out 
again  to-morrow." 

"I'll  come,  of  course,  Martin,  I  must  fetch  my  hat 
and  jacket." 

They  waited  for  the  weather,  and  suddenly  Martin, 
turning  back  from  the  door,  brushed  his  cheek  against 
Minnie's.  She  had  followed  behind  him  and  he  did  not 
know  that  she  was  so  close. 

The  accidental  contact  served  to  loosen  a  tongue  that 
had  long  trembled  to  speak,  yet  failed  till  now  of  utter- 
ance. 

"Minnie,  Minnie,  I  can't  hold  it  in  no  more.  Look  at 
me,  Minnie ! ' ' 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders.  She  looked  a  mo- 
ment, but  her  eyelashes  quickly  came  down,  and  soon  her 
head  sank  till  he  could  only  see  the  crown  of  it.  He 
marked  the  thick  hair;  then  he  lowered  his  head  to  her 
shoulder  and  put  his  lips  to  her  ear  and  whispered  into  it. 

' '  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  Minnie.  I  'm  not  good  enough, 
but  there  'tis.  Oh,  Minnie  dear,  will  you  marry  me?  I 
wish  I  knew  what  to  say.    But  all  I  know  is  I  can't  do 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  345 

without  you.  I  want  you  for  my  own.  I've  always 
cared  a  lot  about  you,  ever  since  we  wi^re  just  little  things 
and  ran  about  together ;  but  I  never  knew  the  sweetness 
of  you  and  the  loveliness  till  I  grew  up.  And  of  late, 
Minnie,  I  seem  as  if  my  eyes  had  been  opened,  and  I've 
been  wondering  how  in  the  name  of  fortune  I  could  go 
on  year  after  year  so  near  to  you  and  never " 

He  stopped  and  put  his  arms  round  her. 

''Look  up,  you  beautiful  thing!"  he  said.  "And  tell 
me  if  I'm  mad  to  hope  for  it,  or  if " 

She  looked  up  then,  quite  speechless  and  pale.  But 
her  brown  eyes  held  more  than  tears,  and  he  knew,  if  he 
had  needed  to  know,  that  it  was  well  with  him. 

For  once  Martin  was  a  joyous,  irresponsible  young 
man  in  love.  He  smothered  her  with  kisses ;  he  babbled ; 
he  hugged ;  he  hurt  her.  They  panted  together  in  a  wild 
embrace,  and  he  thanked  God — not  piously — but  riot- 
ously, triumphantly.  It  was  a  grand  flash  of  frenzy  that 
left  them  breathless,  dizzy,  faint  with  longing  and  with 
love.  But  it  never  came  again — not  even  in  the  hour 
when  first  he  possessed  her. 

Minnie  walked  beside  her  betrothed  to  Hartland.  He 
had  grown  perfectly  calm  before  they  reached  his  home, 
but  she  could  not  so  quickly  recover.  Her  legs  shook 
and  she  had  to  take  his  arm.  To  feel  it  made  her  still 
more  unsteady.  To  touch  him  at  this  time  brought  a 
sort  of  delicious  vertigo  upon  her.  His  return  to  sobriety 
strengthened  her  and  helped  self-control.  His  voice  was 
measured  again,  his  face  was  cool,  the  swollen  vein  on  his 
temple  had  vanished  before  they  turned  into  Hartland. 
He  even  seemed  a  little  ashamed  of  himself,  and  asked 
her  to  excuse  him  for  being  so  rough. 

Then  it  was  Philip 's  turn,  and  Minnie  saw  the  old  man 
turned  into  a  happy  child  before  this  news.  Her  heart 
responded,  and  she  listened  to  him  while  Martin  smiled — 
a  little  self-conscious  and  uneasy. 

Philip  chattered. 

"When  this  fine  thing  happened  to  me — which  it  did 
do  at  Stannon,  and  I  blessed  Stannon  evermore  because 
of  it — I  got  on  my  boss  and  rode  like  hell-fire  to  Tavistock 


316  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

for  the  ring.  No — no,  I  didn't  neither.  I  got  the  ring 
first — afore  your  blessed  mother  said  'yes'!  Ha,  ha, 
ha!  That  was  the  sort  I  was.  But  there  ban't  many 
would  have  the  cheek  to  do  that  nowadays.  We  ban't 
less  cocksure  in  youth  now  than  we  was  then;  but  we 
ban't  so  brave.  However,  you  shall  have  it  to-morrow, 
Minnie,  if  I've  got  to  drive  him  off  with  a  hosswhip  to 
get  it!" 

"No  need  for  that,  father,"  laughed  Martin.  "Next 
market-day,  when  I'm  in  Tavistock " 

"Next  market-day!  Get  along  with  you!  You  com- 
mand him  to  fetch  it  to-morrow,  Minnie ;  don 't  you  stand 
none  of  his  cold-blooded  nonsense  no  more.  You  order 
him  about  and  make  him  run  the  soles  off  his  boots,  my 
pretty  darling — that's  what  you've  got  to  do  now.  Let 
him  larn  all  it  means  to  win  the  beautifullest  maiden 
in  Dartymoor." 

He  promised  mighty  gifts  and  foretold  all  manner  of 
delights.  Presently  he  got  up  to  leave  them.  Then  he 
stopped  at  the  door  and  turned,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

"Kiss  her!"  he  commanded  Martin.  "Let  me  see  you 
kiss  her — just  once.  'Twill  be  meat  and  drink  to  me — 
you  can 't  refuse  your  father  that.  I  command  you !  Go 
on,  Minnie ! ' ' 

Such  a  fleeting  caress  as  might  be  imagined  at  this 
order  passed  between  them.  Minnie  indeed  minded  not 
the  audience,  for  her  future  father-in-law  had  long  won 
her  heart ;  but  Martin  was  uncomfortable  and  even  vexed. 
Such  an  incident  savoured  of  indecency,  to  his  mind.  He 
complied  quickly;  then  the  farmer  with  a  snort  of  con- 
tempt departed.  He  had  not  wit  to  perceive  the  per- 
formance must  be  vain. 

' '  Practise !  Practise ! "  he  cried.  ' '  You  've  got  a  lot  to 
larn  yet.    But  Minnie  will  teach  you,  if  I  know  her!" 

The  lovers  talked  for  half  an  hour,  and  Martin  re- 
turned to  himself  in  discussion  of  Philip  Ouldsbroom. 
But  he  was  gentle  still  and  no  cloud  shadowed  Minnie's 
halcyon  hour. 

"Poor  father,"  he  said.  "He  does  make  me  feel  so 
old,  Minnie.    I  feel  as  if  he  was  my  son,  instead  of  me 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  347 

being  his  son,  and  I  catch  myself  feeling  pretty  much  as 
real  fathers  feel,  I  should  think.  But  he'll  never  grow 
up  to  sense  now.  If  only  we  could  get  him  to  chapel — 
just  to  give  it  a  try,  Minnie.  How  I've  thought  and 
thought  and  planned  to  do  it.  But  I  can't  shake  him. 
He  hates  the  whole  business  and  won't  listen.  'Tis  very 
puzzling,  because  you'd  think,  with  all  his  good  parts, 
the  Lord  would  make  Himself  heard.  He's  too  kind- 
hearted,  you'd  think,  to  turn  the  still  small  voice  away 
from  his  heart.  It  must  sound  there  often  and  often,  as 
it  does  on  every  heart,  but  he  won 't  listen  to  it. ' ' 

"I've  loved  him  dearly  this  longful  time.  And 
my  father  does  too.  Father  says  that  he's  his  own 
enemy. ' ' 

"More  than  that  now.  He's  making  other  men  his 
enemies  too.  He's  uncertain,  and  you  can't  rely  on  his 
word  like  you  used  to.  That's  the  fatal  thing  that  drink 
does.  It  makes  a  truthful  man  a  liar.  When  you  come 
to  Hartland,  Minnie,  you  must  see  what  you  can  do  to 
help  him." 

"Be  very  sure  of  that,  Martin." 

"You  never  know  the  Lord's  chosen  tool,  Minnie. 
Mr.  Twigg  foretold  that  I  should  be  the  one  to  get  father 
to  see  the  Light.    But  I  don't  think  that  ever  I  shall  by 

the  look  of  it.    But  perhaps  you .    He's  terribly  fond 

of  you,  and  always  has  been.  He'll  go  pouring  out  money 
for  you  now,  I  'm  afraid.  But  you  must  be  firm  and  not 
let  him  do  silh^  things. ' ' 

' '  He 's  wonderful  to  me.    So  simple  and  childlike. ' ' 

"But  you  must  be  firm  and  not  childlike — firm  from 
the  first.  You  must  begin  as  you  are  going  on.  You 
may  save  a  soul  by  it,  Minnie." 

"His  soul  is  saved,  if  ever  a  soul  was,  Martin.  His 
eyes  are  so  blue.  Oh,  how  blue  they  are!  He'll  come 
with  his  troubles  to  my  father  sometimes  and  call  me  to 
listen,  and  hold  my  hand  while  he  tells;  and  I've  looked 
into  his  eyes  under  his  sad,  old  forehead  often  and  often, 
and  thought  they  was  like  little  peeps  of  clear  sky 
through  a  storm  of  clouds." 

Martin  stared  at  her.     He  had  his  arms  round  her 


348  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

while  he  was  speaking;  but  for  the  moment  he  let  go. 
Surprise  and  admiration  shared  his  voice. 

"That's  poetry!  Well,  I  never,  you  clever  girl!  It 
is,  Minnie,  for  I  know  what  poetry  is,  because  I  had  to 
learn  bits  of  it  at  school. ' ' 

"  'Tis  true — ^poetry  or  no,"  she  said. 
,    He  put  his  arms  round  her  again. 

' '  You  '11  save  my  father  if  'tis  in  mortal  power  to  do  it. 
And  I'll  be  very  quick  to  help.  There's  a  lot  to  think 
upon  now.  There  must  be  changes  all  round.  When 
we're  married  will  be  the  time  to  make  them.  And 
there's  a  great  deal  to  be  done  first,  too.  Hartland  must 
be  turned  inside  out  for  you,  Minnie. ' ' 

' '  No,  no,  Martin.  I  dearly  love  it  as  it  is.  I  wouldn  't 
change  a  stick." 

"That's  for  me  to  say.  You  shall  come  into  a  home 
worthy  of  you.  But  we  must  go  gradual  and  clever. 
Father  will  do  anything  for  you — so  that's  to  the  good." 

"And  I'll  do  anything  for  him — anything  in  the 
world,"  declared  Minnie. 

They  relapsed  into  love  talk  and  the  time  flew. 

Philip  gave  them  two  hours  while  he  sat  over  a  fire  in 
his  bedroom,  smoked,  and  built  castles  in  the  air.  He 
had  ordered  Martha  White  to  leave  them  alone,  and  she 
had  gone  off  to  the  village  with  the  news  of  the  betrothal. 
Then  he  returned  to  them.  All  was  dark,  but  he  heard 
the  murmur  of  their  voices.  At  last  he  came  to  the  door, 
knocked  very  loud,  heard  a  flutter  and  movement  of 
chairs,  and  laughed.  Then  Minnie  opened  the  door  and 
he  found  the  kitchen  chilly,  for  the  fire  had  gone  out. 

"A  damned  good  sign,  that,"  he  said.  "You  didn't 
feel  the  lack — eh?  Catched  enough  heat  and  to  spare 
from  each  other,  you  rascals ! ' ' 

Then  Minnie  lighted  the  fire  and  presently  Martin  saw 
her  home.  He  was  radiantly  happy  and  full  of  ideas. 
He  desired  to  speak  to  Quinton  Crymes.  Upon  the  sub- 
ject of  the  date  of  the  marriage  he  did  not  speak,  and  he 
neither  pressed  Minnie  to  name  a  day  nor  thought  of 
doing  so. 

When  her  father  presently  asked  him  his  views  on  the 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  349 

subject,  he  declared  that  much  must  be  thought  of  before 
the  wedding;  but  he  hoped  that  Minnie  would  see  her 
way  to  wed  within  the  year. 

His  father  asked  him  the  same  question  when  he  re- 
turned home  and  received  the  same  answer. 

"Within  the  year,  you  frosty  toad!"  he  shouted. 
' '  Good  Lord,  what 's  come  to  the  human  race  ?  And  you 
just  one-and-twenty  and  can  wait  a  year !  Well,  well — 
think  better  of  that — think  better  of  it,  Martin.  'Tis  a 
poor  compliment  to  her,  I  assure  you.  Force  her  into  it 
afore  Lady  Day.  A  year — Dammy!  I  want  to  be  a 
gran 'father  in  a  year — don't  I,  Tiger?"  ^ 

Tiger  laughed  and  the  lover  withdrew. 

But  the  reason  for  the  delay  appeared  soon  enough. 
Martin  was  methodical.  He  left  nothing  to  chance  in  the 
great  event  of  his  life.  He  had  long  conversations  with 
Minnie,  and  if  he  was  loverlike  he  was  businesslike  as 
well.  He  taught  her  to  keep  accounts  on  his  own  system ; 
he  indicated  branches  of  learning  calculated  to  be  useful ; 
he  enlarged  her  mind  and  declared  his  own  theories  of 
what  married  life  should  be.  She  seldom  found  herself 
at  any  difference  from  him,  and  such  friction  as  existed 
at  Hartland  he  concealed  from  her.  She  heard  of  it, 
however,  from  Philip ;  but  she  never  mentioned  trouble 
again  to  Martin  after  the  first  time.  Then  he  distinctly 
told  her  that  she  must  support  his  view  in  everything,  at 
all  costs,  and  that  if  his  father  was  to  be  happy  in  the 
future  at  Hartland,  a  course  of  unyielding  firmness 
would  be  necessary. 

"You  mustn't  spoil  him.  'Tis  bad  for  all  created 
things  to  be  spoiled,"  he  told  Minnie. 

She  promised,  but  always  found  herself  weak  in  the 
presence  of  the  old  man,  and  Martin  quickly  discovered 
it.  New  problems  rose  from  this  circumstance,  and  he 
saw  that  with  IMinnie  at  Hartland,  Philip  might  become 
increasingly  difficult.  He  argued  with  Minnie  and  she 
promised  amendment. 

Philip,  for  his  part,  rejoiced  over  the  approaching 
changes  and  himself  made  many  suggestions  and  pro- 
posed a  hundred  alterations  at  Hartland.    But  his  ideas 


350  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

did  not  commend  themselves  to  the  better  judgment  of 
Minnie's  future  husband.  Martin  often  left  Ouldsbroom 
chilled  and  disappointed.  The  farmer's  surprises  fell 
flat,  and  objections  to  them  seldom  failed  on  Martin's 
lips;  while,  conversely,  the  things  that  he  proposed  to 
do  and  invited  Philip  to  sanction  were  usually  of  a  char- 
acter that  annoyed  or  openly  angered  the  elder  man. 

Philip  talked  with  Tiger  on  a  summer  day  when  Martin 
made  holiday  and  took  Minnie  to  a  revel. 

"  'Twas  all  I  could  do  to  make  him  go.  He  hates  a 
bit  of  fun  like  a  drop  of  drink.  'Good  Lord,'  I  said,  'you 
don't  know  what  a  girl  likes.  I  knov/  better  than  you 
do.  Be  off  with  you  and  spend  a  bit  of  money  on  her 
and  put  her  in  the  round-about  and  play  kiss  in  the  ring, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  You  won 't  be  young  much  longer, ' 
I  told  him.  'For  God's  sake  keep  young  while  you 
may.'  " 

"He  never  was  what  you  might  call  young,"  declared 
Tiger ;  but  Philip  denied  this. 

"Once  he  Avas — long  afore  your  time.  Comed  to  me 
with  his  baby  sins  in  them  days  and  axed  me  to  make 
his  mother  forgive  him.  Young  then — that  was  afore 
he'd  got  into  double  figures.  We  understood  each  other 
then.  And,  like  the  fool  I  was,  I  always  longed  for  him 
to  get  older  quicker,  so  as  he  should  be  more  and  more 
to  me.  He  said  to  me  a  bit  agone — puzzled  like — 'How 
is  it,  father,  the  little  things  in  life  seem  so  big  to  you, 
and  the  big  things  seem  so  little  ? '  There  'twas  in  a  nut- 
shell." 

' '  And  what  did  you  say  ? ' '  asked  Tiger. 

"Why,  I  asked  him  who  was  most  like  to  know  what 
was  big  and  what  was  little.  I  said,  'Can  you,  with 
your  score  of  years,  judge  better  than  me,  who  have  got 
more'n  threescore  behind  me?'  Still,  there  it  stands, 
and  my  plans  for  him  miscarrj^  and  my  thoughts  miss 
fire.  Of  course,  he'll  live  to  see  what  matters  and  what 
don't;  but  that's  no  gert  use  to  me,  for  I  shall  be  under 
the  daisies  afore  he  finds  out  the  truth  of  things. ' ' 

"His  wife  will  larn  him." 

"I'm  very  hopeful  of  it.     She  knows  a  bit  about  the 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  351 

joy  of  life,  and  the  proper  worth  of  money  and  the  right 
uses  for  it.  But  he's  that  terrible  strong,  Tiger,  that 
'twould  take  a  very  wilful  pattern  of  female  to " 

He  broke  off. 

"Here — here — this  be  treason  I'm  talking!"  he  cried. 
"We'll  back  Minnie — you  and  me — and  we'll  help  her; 
and  if  three  to  one  can't  knock  a  bit  of  nonsense  into 
my  boy,  'tis  pity.  'Tis  they  Little  Baptists,  in  my  judg- 
ment. Tiger.  T'other  religious  people  don't  scowl  on  all 
that's  best  in  life — not  to  the  same  tune  any  way;  but 
that  slim  atomy  of  a  Bewes — why,  I  do  think  'tis  a  sin 
and  a  shame  for  the  sun  to  shine  in  his  opinion.  Plis 
hatchet  face  and  icicle  nose  always  make  me  cry  out  for 
a  pint  whenever  I  run  on  'em.  A  barrow  pig  knows 
more  happiness  than  him — and  has  a  larger  heart." 

"You're  quite  wrong  there,"  declared  Tiger.  "His 
outside 's  the  worst  of  the  man.  He's  all  right,  and  he's 
going  to  be  married  hisself,  and  that's  a  sure  sign  of 
grace,  as  I  've  oft  heard  you  say. ' ' 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  work  of  getting  his  life  and  its  environment  fitted 
to  marriage  was  done  very  carefully  and  very  thoroughly 
by  Martin  Ouldsbroom;  and  the  approaching  respon- 
sibilities did  not  decrease  his  sobriety.  No  intelligent 
man  of  thirty  ever  made  ready  to  leave  the  single  state 
with  more  deliberation  than  this  youth  of  twenty-one. 
The  only  difficulties  centered  in  his  home,  and  they  were 
serious;  because  Philip  thrust  himself  into  the  prepara- 
tions with  immense  ardour.  Often  when  Martin  differed 
from  him,  the  farmer  went  to  Minnie ;  and  when  she 
clove  to  her  lover  and  ventured  to  think  his  way  was  the 
better  one,  Philip  would  be  hurt. 

"I  won't  be  left  out,"  he  said  once  to  Martin.  "Any- 
body would  think  I  was  expected  only  to  look  on  and 
see  everything  done  without  lifting  a  hand  to  help.  But 
I'm  not  that  sort.  Haven't  I  been  through  it  all?  'Tis 
but  yesterday  that  I  was  setting  this  place  straight 
against  the  day  your  dear  mother  came  into  it.  I  must  be 
heard,  I  tell  you.  I've  given  up  the  big  bedroom;  I've 
given  up — there,  what  haven 't  I  given  up  ?  But  I  won 't 
give  up  all,  and  you  oughtn  't  to  want  for  me  to.  Martha 
White  have  got  to  stay.  She's  used  to  me  and  I'm  used 
to  her ;  and  Tiger  have  got  to  stay  for  the  present.  When 
he's  married,  then  he  must  find  a  house,  and  not  till 
then." 

This  sort  of  thing  was  spoken  by  the  master  of  Hart- 
land  daily.  Sometimes  he  put  it  in  mild  language  and 
sometimes  in  coarse.  For  the  most  part  Martin  answered 
with  policy  and  conceded  what  he  felt  to  be  right;  but 

352 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  353 

once  it  happened  that,  harassed  by  some  private  problems 
and  weighted  with  thoughts  and  small  cares  of  which 
Ouldsbroom  knew  nothing,  he  was  surprised  into  rare 
petulance  and  made  a  sharp  retort. 

"Time  doesn't  stand  still,  surely!"  he  cried.  "Don't 
your  own  hair  tell  you  that,  father? — and  sense  doesn't 
either?  You  beat  me — you  beat  me.  Can't  you  ever 
see  how  it  is  with  life  and  what  life  means?  We  grow 
wiser  as  we  grow  older — up  to  a  point.  And  then  we  go 
down  hill  again  and,  if  we  last  long  enough,  end  off 
where  we  started  from  and  are  twice  children.  But  you 
— you're  not  old  enough  to  be  so  foolish." 

"And  are  you  old  enough  to  be  so  wise?"  asked  the 
elder.  ' '  Well,  I  suppose  you  think  so ;  but  I  'd  have  you 
to  know  that  you're  little  more  than  a  child  still,  what- 
ever I  may  be,  and  'tis  the  childishness  in  you  thinks  that 
I'm  childish,  not  the  wisdom  in  you.  You've  sucked  a 
lot  of  damned  nonsense  from  books,  and  'tis  my  hope 
that  life  will  knock  it  out  of  you — life  and  trouble  too. 
'Tis  trouble  you  want;  and  when  you've  seen  half  so 
much  as  I  have,  and  larned  the  truth  about  man's  days, 
then  you  '11  look  back  and  own  up  that  I  was  right. ' ' 

At  times  a  season  of  amity  obtained  between  Martin 
and  the  farmer,  and  as  the  date  of  the  wedding  drew 
near,  many  differences  were  permitted  to  pass  un- 
challenged. Philip  was  proud  of  the  match  and  took 
great  personal  credit  for  it.  The  situation  enlarged  and 
became  more  cheerful  towards  the  end ;  but  then,  just  as 
those  concerned  were  thankful  to  believe  all  must  take 
place  happily,  there  fell  two  incidents  that  threatened 
disaster  to  the  actual  ceremony  and  promised  for  a  time 
to  cloud  the  future. 

Martin  was  a  fanatical  teetotaler  and  had  made  Minnie 
one.  He  especially  desired  that  his  principles  should  be 
respected  at  their  wedding  feast,  and  when  Quinton 
Crymes  objected  that  such  a  frosty  welcome  would  be 
felt  by  the  guests  in  general  and  by  the  bridegroom's 
father  in  particular,  Martin  explained  his  position. 

"  'Tis  for  him — for  my  poor  father  most  of  all  that  I 
do  it.    You  know  his  weakness  and  how  hard  it  is  to  fight 

23 


354  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

against  it.  If  I  could  but  take  over  his  temptations  for 
him,  I  gladly  would.  But  we  've  got  to  conquer  the  devil 
ourselves.  Nobody  can  do  it  for  us,  Uncle  Quinton.  Even 
our  Saviour  can  only  help  us  to  fight.  And  knowing 
what  I  know,  and  seeing  what  I  have  seen,  I  hate  liquor 
like  I  hate  sin ;  and  if  I  can  bring  it  about  never  to  have 
one  drop  inside  Hartland,  that  I  shall  do.  It's  death 
and  damnation  both.  So  I  want  father  to  see  that  I'm 
firm  from  the  first.  He's  giving  me  authority  now,  and 
I  shall  exercise  it  for  his  good,  when  and  where  I  can. 
'Tis  no  kindness  to  him  to  put  temptation  in  his  way, 
and  I  won't  do  it  willingly.  You  can  explain  to  the 
others — they  '11  be  very  quick  to  understand. ' ' 

"Us  must  drink  the  health  of  the  bride  and  groom," 
declared  Quinton. 

"Then  do  it  in  water.  I'm  going  to  be  above  silly 
things  like  that,  and  so  is  Minnie.  'Tis  the  dutj'  of  every 
serious  man  to  set  a  good  example  in  the  world,  and  if 
I  know  from  bitter  experience  that  drink  is  poison  to 
body  and  soul — as  well  I  do  know — then  it  shall  never  be 
said  that  I  helped  the  cause  of  it." 

' '  Your  father  won 't  come  if  he  hears  tell  of  this. ' ' 

"Do  right  and  leave  the  working  out  in  Higher 
Hands." 

But  Quinton  Crymes  enjoyed  liquor  and  had  a  great 
sense  of  self-respect.  He  apprehended  trouble,  and  he 
took  steps  to  avert  it.  The  threatened  danger  passed, 
for  Quinton  went  privately  to  Hartland,  and  with  a 
guilty  heart  avoided  Martin  and  sought  the  master. 

' '  Your  young  wonder  was  all  for  a  wedding  breakfast 
with  water,"  he  explained  in  the  privacy  of  a  byre. 
"Don't  you  say  nothing,  Phil,  or  I  shall  have  him  down 
on  me  like  a  ton  of  bricks;  but  rest  sure  that  I  ban't 
going  to  do  any  such  ondacent  thing." 

Philip  was  in  a  mild  mood  and  said  little  save  in  kind- 
ness. 

"You  are  right,  Quinton.  There's  a  proper  and  an 
improper  way.  To  give  'em  water!  No,  no!  'twould 
be  remembered  against  the  party  for  years — never 
forgot.    I  tell  you  a  marriage  begun  in  water  would  end 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  355 

iu  ice,  so  like  as  not.  Give  'em  generous  drinking,  and 
them  as  don't  want  to  drink  can  pass  it.  I  ban't  the 
sort  to  dictate  to  any  man.  And  if  the  boy  and  girl 
won't  touch  it,  we'll  touch  it  for  'em  and  wish  'em  well 
in  the  prettiest  liquor  we  can  run  to.  I'm  glad  this  has 
come  up,  for  I  Avant  the  drinks  and  baccy  to  be  my  share. 
You  remember  when  I  took  your  sister  away  from  Hart- 
land — my  dear  wife  that  was — that  I  forked  out  for  the 
drinks  and  baccy.  And,  by  your  leave,  I'll  do  the  like 
again — just  for  old  sake's  sake.  'Twill  soften  the  sadness 
of  it  to  my  heart,  Quinton.  Because  'tis  going  to  be  a 
queer,  creepy  thing  for  me,  however  well  it  goes.  I  shall 
see  myself  there — five-and-twenty  years,  is  it?  Some- 
where about  that  now.  Young,  gay  blids  were  we !  And 
Unity — what  a  woman !  What  a  bosom  she  had  for 
a  maiden!  Bv  God,  how  cruel  I  miss  her  to  this 
day." 

He  stopped,  and  Mr.  Crymes,  who  was  not  emotional, 
returned  to  the  subject. 

"If  you  must  pay,  you  must.  And  Twigg  will  do  it 
all  in  reason.  We  shall  be  Little  Baptists  to  a  man,  I 
believe — save  for  you  and  Tiger.  And  for  my  part  I 
hold  with  a  drop  of  fiery  drinking  at  times  like  this.  It 
lifts  the  heart  as  high  as  the  matter  in, hand,  and  gives  a 
bit  of  a  dash  to  things  that  they  often  stand  in  sore  need 
of.  And  Gertrude  for  one— she'll  want  a  thimbleful  and 
a  bit  over,  if  she's  to  see  our  Minnie  drive  off  without 
weeping  a  river." 

' '  Of  course  she  '11  want  it,  and  she  shall  have  it ;  and  if 
she's  got  a  tap  that  she's  special  addicted  to,  I  hope  she'll 
say  what  'tis. ' ' 

"But  keep  dark  as  the  grave  on  the  subject,  Phil," 
cautioned  Mr.  Crymes.  "You  know  your  boy — boy  no 
more,  for  a  stronger  man  for  his  years  I  never  met  with. 
You  know  him.  He  thinks  'twill  be  a  water  feast — well, 
better  let  him  think  so  till  he  sees  the  bottles^.  Then 
'twill  be  too  late  to  make  a  row.  Besides,  he'll  be  mar-' 
ried  and " 

Philip  rejoiced  in  a  conspiracy  of  this  kind. 

"Not  a  another  word!"  he  said.     "Leave  it  all  to  me 


356  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

and  Twigg.  And  he  must  be  cautioned  too,  for  he's 
hand-in-glove  with  the  pair  of  'em.  But  he's  bound  to 
be  our  side  in  this  matter.  After  dark,  the  evening  afore 
the  wedding,  the  liquor  shall  arrive  to  Stannon. ' ' 

Quinton  nodded. 

"Like  a  thief  in  the  night  let  it  come,"  he  said. 
"Minnie  mustn't  know  neither — not  if  it  can  be  hid 
away  from  her." 

Over  this  trifle,  of  which  he  made  much,  Philip  had 
his  way  and  was  glad.  With  glee  he  related  his  plans 
to  Tiger ;  and  then  the  younger  told  him  of  an  event  that 
presently  led  to  more  important  things.  Not  the  least 
of  Martin's  minor  anxieties  centred  on  his  house.  The 
time  was  come  when  the  tenants  thereof  must  be  asked 
to  depart,  that  he  might  improve  his  property.  They 
were  unable  to  pay  a  larger  rent,  but  the  place  was  worth 
more  as  it  stood  and  would  be  worth  considerably  more 
when  the  landlord  had  done  all  that  he  proposed.  But 
Martin  knew  his  father's  opinion,  and  was  aware  that 
if  he  turned  out  old  Jane  Maine  and  her  daughter  Philip 
would  be  very  angry.  Already  Ouldsbroom  had  offered 
to  pay  the  increased  rent ;  but  the  futility  of  this  course 
was  not  hidden  from  Martin.  To  take  money  out  of  his 
father's  pocket  was  to  take  it  out  of  his  own.  Chance 
had  now  cut  this  knot. 

"Have  you  heard  that  ancient  creature,  Jane  Maine, 
be  gone?"  asked  Tiger.  "Went  off  in  her  sleep.  Mister 
Martin  will  be  glad,  for  there'll  be  no  bother  now." 

And  presently  Martin  himself  arrived  with  the  news. 
He  was  much  relieved  and  could  not  conceal  his  satis- 
faction. 

"I've  had  a  few  words  with  Mercy  Maine  already," 
he  said.  "She's  glad  that  it  happened  so,  for  it  has 
saved  a  long  illness  and  a  lot  of  expense.  And  she's 
going  at  the  quarter,  so  it  has  fallen  out  well — as  it  had 
to  be." 

Thus  far  the  passing  of  Jane  Maine  fell  fairly  enough ; 
but  on  the  night  before  the  wedding  much  evil  arose  out 
of  it. 

Talk  ranged  over  varied  subjects,  and  Philip  and  Mar- 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  357 

tin  were  both  excited.  The  latter,  despite  his  press  of 
business,  had  found  leisure  for  some  strenuous  private 
thinking,  and  his  ideas  now  led  him  into  danger.  The 
present  paramount  ambition  of  his  mind  sprang  full- 
fledged  from  the  death  of  his  tenant.  While  debating  on 
a  host  of  problems,  which  would  clamour  for  solution 
when  Minnie  arrived  to  begin  her  married  life  at  Hart- 
land,  there  had  flashed  upon  him  the  possibility  of  a 
grand  arrangement  by  which,  at  one  stroke,  the  whole 
situation  might  be  eased  and  accommodated. 

At  another  time,  with  a  mind  more  free  to  ponder  the 
project  in  all  its  bearings,  Martin  must  have  seen  the 
folly  of  his  new  inspiration.  But  for  the  moment,  much 
let  and  hindered  as  he  was  on  every  hand,  with  his  bride 
waiting  and  a  honeymoon  to  be  taken,  he  did  a  thing 
that  might  have  been  guessed  impossible  and  acted  ab- 
surdly. The  absurdity,  however,  was  only  apparent  to 
an  onlooker.  In  effect  his  proposition,  now  broken  upon 
his  father's  ear,  was  tragical,  and,  too  late,  he  perceived 
it.  In  a  dozen  words,  spoken  out  of  self-absorbed  ego- 
tism and  loosed  from  a  mind  too  much  preoccupied  to 
do  itself  justice,  Martin  committed  the  grand  mistake  of 
his  life.  His  own  stable  and  established  existence  sur- 
vived the  recoil  of  this  blow ;  but  it  descended  with  shat- 
tering force  in  another  quarter  on  shoulders  less  strong 
to  sustain  it. 

On  the  night  before  the  marriage  Philip  was  drinking 
and  smoking.  At  the  kitchen  fire  hung  some  clothes  and 
a  linen  shirt.  They  represented  his  wedding  garments, 
and  Martha  had  fetched  them  out  of  their  long  repose  to 
air.  Tiger  sat  at  hand  with  his  pipe  alight,  and  Martin, 
deep  in  thought,  was  eating  at  the  table.  He  had  just 
returned  from  Tavistock.  Full  of  his  idea  and  anxious 
to  break  it  to  Philip  before  the  business  of  to-morrow, 
the  young  man  finished  his  meal  and  presently  asked 
Tiger  to  leave  them. 

"I've  got  some  private  affairs  with  my  father,"  he 
said;  and  then,  when  Tiger  had  gone,  he  spoke: 

"Everything  is  at  a  climax  now,  father;  and  I  think 
the  future  is  all  pretty  clear. ' ' 


358  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

' '  Why,  who  doubts  it  ?  Among  us  we  've  planned  every 
mortal  thing.  'Tis  only  left  for  us  at  home  to  have  all 
suent  afore  you  come  back,  and  you  may  trust  Martha 
for  that.  What  soap  and  water  can  do — and  I've  got 
a  surprise  or  two  up  my  sleeve  for  Minnie  yet,  mind ! 
She'll  see  a  few  things  that  will  be  new  to  her  at  old 
Hartland  when  she  comes  to  it.  And  vou  will  too,  Mar- 
tin." 

"Don't  be  too  busy,  father.  And  that  reminds  me. 
You  know  how  much  I  want  all  to  go  in  harmony  when 
we  come  back ;  and  I  've  been  thinking  a  lot  about  it,  and 
my  house  falling  in  just  at  the  nick  of  time  gave  me  the 
idea.  You  see — I  don't  mean  that  it  should  happen  now 
— not  for  six  months  or  more — not,  of  course,  till  'twas 
all  made  ready  according  to  your  own  fancy ;  but  I  can 't 
help  thinking — and  I've  prayed  on  it  too,  for  that  mat- 
ter— I  can't  help  thinking  that,  presently,  you  might  be 
a  deal  more  snug  and  comfortable  in  my  house  than  you 
would  be  here.  I  can  see  you  there  along  with  Martha. 
Minnie  would  be  in  every  clay  and  so  should  I,  and  Tiger 
too.  And  there  you  are — free  of  all  the  bustle  and  bother 
and  turmoil  up  here.  What  d'you  think  of  it,  father? 
Not  just  vet,  of  course,  but  presently,  when  I'd  made  it 
fit  for  yoii?" 

A  great  silence  fell ;  then  the  speaker  looked  at  Philip 
and  saw  the  awful  extent  of  his  error. 

Martin  had  been  walking  up  and  down  the  kitchen  as 
he  spoke;  but  now  he  stood  still.  The  other  raised  his 
great  head  like  a  hound  off  a  trail,  and  like  a  hound  he 
gave  tongue.  Literally  he  roared.  For  some  moments 
no  syllable  was  to  be  distinguished  in  the  wild  tympany 
of  sounds  that  he  uttered.  Then  some  order  came  among 
them  and  the  first  words  that  Martin  could  distinguish 
was  a  command  to  be  gone. 

"Get  out  of  my  sight,  you  unnatural  devil!     Take 

yourself  away,  or  I'll ordered  off — turned  off — flung 

out!  Not  yet,  by  God!  I'm  not  weak  enough  to  be 
hustled  over  my  own  threshold  yet.  You've  tried  it  on 
too  soon!  Get  out  of  my  sight — go — live  in  your  own 
blasted  house  on  your  own  blasted  money!     Clear  out, 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  359 

I  say,  or  I'll  do  you  an  injury  and  send  you  afore  your 
woman  to-morrow  with  broken  bones ! ' ' 

"Father " 

'  *  Begone !  Don 't  never  take  that  great  name  on  your 
lips  no  more,  you  wretch !  Fatherless  you  shall  be  and 
fatherless  deserve  to  be.  And  God  send  this — God  lift 
up  for  you  what  you  sow  presently  and  let  your  son  cut 
you  to  the  heart's  quick  and  send  you  crying  frantic  to 
the  dogs  to  be  kind  to  you — as  I  go  now.  May  you  feel 
what  you've  made  me  feel  this  night;  may  you  sink  to 
be  friendless  as  I  am  friendless;  may  your  children  plot 
to  turn  you  out  of  your  father's  home,  as  you  have 
plotted  to  turn  me  out  of  mine.  But  I'll  not  go — d'you 
hear  that  ?  Never,  never  will  I  go.  While  this  arm  can 
bend  and  these  here  fingers  grip,  I  '11  lay  fast  hold  of  my 
own,  and  'tis  only  when  I'm  dead  you  shall  thrust  me 
away ;  and,  if  I  could,  I  'd  come  back  again  after  that  and 
curse  your  pillow  till  you  yourself  fled  afore  me !  Ruin 
seize  you,  you  graceless,  stone-hearted  image  of  a  son! 
And  me — to  think  what  I've  been — me,  with  my  fool's 
heart  this  moment  brimming  over — brimming  over  with 
good  things  to  glad  your  eyes  when  you  came  back !  Go, 
I  tell  you — if  you  don't  want  me  to  fly  at  you  like  a 
raging  beast.  Go,  and  don't  you  think  I'll  come  to-mor- 
row now.  Not  a  step  will  I  come.  Married !— I  'd  sooner 
see  you  hanged  than  married ! ' '  He  stopped  stricken  by 
his  own  word.     Then  he  repented  of  it. 

"No,  not  that — not  that — for  your  mother's  sake  I 
call  that  back.    Eat  and  drink  and  marry  and " 

He  had  been  standing.  Suddenly  he  dropped  down 
into  his  chair  and  flung  his  head  on  his  arms  upon  the 
table. 

Martin  went  out  and  hastened  to  seek  Tiger. 

"Get  to  my  father,  will  you?"  he  said.  "I've  hurt 
him.  God,  He  knows  I  meant  no  such  thing.  I  made  a 
proposal  and  he  took  it  in  a  wrong  spirit." 

The  other  was  sorry  but  did  not  ask  for  particulars. 

' '  Bad  luck,  sure  enough !  Coming  to-night  of  all 
nights  too.  I  hope  it  won't  shake  him  for  to-morrow. 
And  you — have  he  cut  you  up  very  bad?" 


360  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

Martin  nodded. 

* '  It 's  my  own  fault,  in  a  way.  I  was  full  of  an  idea  to 
work  well  all  round.  And  my  mind  was — well,  it  looked 
all  right  to  me — I  didn't  know — I  didn't  guess  how 
father  would  take  it." 

The  young  man  was  much  moved. 


CHAPTER  V 

Tiger  could  obtain  no  hearing  from  Philip  Ouldsbroom. 
A  horror  beyond  analysis  plunged  his  soul  into  stupor. 
He  sat  like  a  log  for  some  time  wliile  the  younger  man 
talked;  then,  disregarding  him,  he  rose  and  went  to  his 
bed.  For  hours  his  trouble  festered  in  him,  and  very 
early  in  the  morning  he  came  downstairs.  He  had 
planned  terrific  counter-strokes  through  the  night.  But 
two  hours  after  the  silent  breakfast  he  was  drunk.  Mar- 
tin had  approached  him,  contrite,  and  expressed  the 
deepest  regret  for  his  error. 

''I  don't  know  what  I  was  dreaming  about,"  he  said 
frankly.  "I  can't  excuse  myself,  father.  I  didn't  see 
the  monstrous  side  of  it.  My  mind  was  so  full.  But 
there's  nothing  to  be  spoken  more.  I'm  bitterly  sorry 
for  my  mistake,  and  I  ask  you  humbly  to  forgive  me. 
And  I  've  asked  my  God  to  forgive  me  for  saying  that.  I 
beg  you,  who  are  so  quick  to  forgive  all  men,  to  forgive 
me,  father,  and  not  cloud  the  day. ' ' 

But  Philip  would  not  yield. 

'^Say  no  more,"  he  answered.  "The  truth  of  the 
heart  will  often  slip  when  the  mind  ban't  on  guard. 
Words  won't  alter  it.  You've  told  me  what  you  want. 
Perhaps  I  '11  oblige  you  after  all.  What 's  the  odds  now  ? 
Your  young,  beautiful  girl  don't  want  old  bones  cumber- 
ing her  threshold.  Go  to  her  and  enjoy  her.  I  wish  the 
pair  of  you  nought  but  well." 

' '  I  implore  you  to  come  to  the  feast,  father. ' ' 

* '  No — not  now ;  I  can 't  now.  I  can 't  face  the  folk  now. 
Put  on  your  wedding  garments  and  be  off. ' ' 

Martin  strove  in  vain  and,  when  he  was  gone  to  dress, 
Tiger  endeavoured  to  change  his  master's  mind.     The 

361 


362  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

farmer  had  drawn  himself  a  quart  of  beer  and  was  sit- 
ting smoking  in  front  of  the  fire. 

"Best  you  go,  master;  'twill  mar  all  and  send  'em 
away  awful  down  in  the  mouth,  if  you  ban 't  there. ' ' 

"No — no.  I've  had  my  pleasure  of  it.  Planning 
things  be  the  pleasure — not  the  things  themselves.  'Tis 
the  same  with  all  our  little  secrets — yours  and  mine.  How 
we  thought  to  see  'em  laugh  when  they  came  back — 
didn  't  w^e  ?  How  we  fooled  ourselves.  They  '11  not  laugh 
from  the  heart.  And  if  I'd  wanted  for  to  plan  a  real 
throb  of  joy  for  'em,  the  way  was  to  creep  off  and  let  'em 
find  my  place  empty." 

He  started  up  and  flung  his  mug  on  the  hearth.  The 
beer  hissed  and  spurted  and  the  peat  sparks  flew. 

' '  Death  and  damnation !  When  I  think  of  it,  I  could 
fire  the  place — burn  it  to  the  ground  and  myself  along 
with  it.  And  he'd  come  and  not  turn  colour,  but  just 
say — 'Lucky  I  made  father  insure.'  Tiger,  'tis  too  much 
— I  can 't  bear  it.  He  've  torn  the  heart  out  of  me  at  last. 
I'm  cast  out,  I  tell  you.  Job's  self  was  never  called  to 
suffer  this. ' ' 

He  made  Tiger  go  presently  to  meet  Mary  French  and 
attend  the  wedding.  Then  he  hustled  off  Martha  White 
and  the  labourers.  It  had  been  decided  that  Martha 
should  stop  at  Hartland;  but  the  master's  whim  was 
now  to  bide  there  alone,  while  his  son  was  being  married. 
The  old  woman,  protesting,  went.  Tiger  also,  in  no  small 
fear,  did  as  he  was  ordered. 

A  dozen  times  during  the  next  few  hours  his  anxious 
eyes  turned  back  to  Hartland. 

"A  column  of  smoke  w'ould  not  surprise  me  at  any 
moment,"  he  confessed  to  Mary. 

But  no  such  thing  happened.  Philip  muddled  himself 
with  beer.  Then  he  dozed  over  the  fire  for  some  hours. 
He  moved  presently,  and  by  accident  kicked  a  sheep-dog 
that  reposed  beside  him.  She  howled  and  woke  him.  He 
rose  then,  rubbed  his  eyes  and  returned  to  himself. 

"I  wish  I  was  you,"  he  said  to  the  brute.  "You  be 
better  thought  on  by  my  son  than  me.  He'll  be  gladder 
to  see  you  again  than  me." 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  363 

But  his  resurgent  spirit  winged  back  to  itself  presently. 

"I'll  get  across,"  he  thought.  "  'Twill  be  a  good 
thing  to  do.    They  '11  go  off  the  happier. ' ' 

He  put  on  the  black  coat  still  hanging  near  the  kitchen 
fire.  Then  he  hurried  away ;  but  he  was  too  late.  When 
still  half  a  mile  from  Stannon,  he  saw  a  little  crowd  at 
the  door.  As  he  watched,  a  carriage  jolted  away  through 
the  valley  over  a  rough  farm  road.  He  put  his  hands 
to  his  mouth  and  shouted  out : 

' '  Hold  on,  Martin  !    I  be  coming ! ' ' 

But  they  could  not  hear.  He  watched  the  vehicle 
disappear  and  saw  the  flutter  of  handkerchiefs  from  the 
crowd  at  the  door.  A  faint  sound  reached  him  as  the 
company  shouted  farewell. 

Then  he  turned  sadly,  and  as  he  went,  some  substance 
in  his  coat-tail  attracted  his  attention.  It  was  an  old 
shoe  he  had  slipped  in  there  on  the  morning  before,  that 
he  might  fling  it  after  the  wedded  pair  when  they  de- 
parted. 

Before  he  reached  home  there  came  Tiger,  hastening 
back  to  him  from  Stannon. 

Philip  welcomed  the  young  man. 

"Bear  me  out,"  he  said,  "bear  testimony  to  my  son 
that  I  meant  to  be  there.    I  set  forth,  but  'twas  too  late. ' ' 

The  other  strove  to  cheer  up  Ouldsbroom  with  an 
account  of  all  that  happened,  but  Philip  was  sunk  in 
gloom. 

"It  can  never  come  over  again."  he  said.  "All  the 
joy  that  I'd  planned  be  lost  for  ever  now." 

"They  sent  you  very  kind  messages  the  last  thing. 
You  was  in  both  their  minds,"  declared  Tiger. 

"It  can  never  come  over  again,"  repeated  the  other. 
"  It 's  lost  to  me  for  all  time  now. ' ' 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  inevitable  circumstance  overtook  Philip  Ouldsbroom, 
and  with  Martin  again  removed  from  him,  his  spirit 
grew  calm  again  and  he  began  to  forget  reality  and  build 
once  more  on  the  relations  he  desired  rather  than  those 
that  subsisted.  The  dream  of  his  heart  was  always  ban- 
ished by  the  actual ;  yet  his  mental  irresolution  was  such 
that  as  yet  nothing  had  killed  that  dream.  It  glimmered 
into  being  again  and  again,  like  a  rainbow  upon  the  dark 
sky  of  his  soul;  it  persisted  there,  beautiful  and  bright, 
till  Martin  returned  to  him  and  the  sun  of  his  hopes  once 
more  sank  storm-foundered. 

He  dwelt  now  largely  on  the  mighty  differences 
wrought  by  marriage  and  supposed  that  character  was 
affected  thereby.  He  related  his  own  experiences  in  this 
sort  to  Tiger,  and  not  only  declared,  but  also  believed, 
that  wedlock  had  made  a  very  different  man  of  him. 

''You'll  know,  you'll  know  when  Mary's  handled  you 
for  a  bit,  my  bold  hero !  We  ban 't  half  men  till  we  are 
husbands.  A  bachelor's  a  selfish,  narrow-minded  car- 
mudgeon — good  for  nought — and  that  ignorant  that  we, 
who  know,  look  at  'em  and  pity  'em.  But,  given  the 
right  woman,  she's  like  springtime  breaking  over  the 
earth.  In  fact,  life's  all  winter  to  a  bachelor,  and  it 
ban't  till  he's  larned  to  love  that  he  knows  any  other 
season.  But  wait  till  a  true  woman's  breast  be  pressed 
up  against  yours.  Tiger — then  you'll  feel  the  warmth  of 
it  get  into  your  Islood;  and  you'll  bud  and  blossom  and 
bear  fruit  belike." 

Tiger  smiled  at  his  poetry. 

"You'm  a  hopeful  old  wonder,  you  are,"  he  said. 

"And  why  for  not?    Don't  I  know  what  wedlock  did 

364 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  365 

for  me?  I  tell  you  I  was  a  man  as  never  thought  of 
anybody  but  himself  afore  I  took  a  wife.  And  after — 
she  found  the  scant  good  in  me,  and  tended  it,  and 
worked  at  it  and  made  me  a  different  creature.  Not 
many  wives  like  her,  I  grant;  but  the  pattern  of  good 
women  ban't  lost  and  never  will  be.  Minnie's  just  per- 
fect in  my  opinion;  and  I  will  say  I've  done  my  little 
best  to  help  make  her  so.  She  understands  my  nature 
something  marvellous  for  a  green  girl.  My  wife's  blood 
be  in  her  veins,  you  must  remember,  because  she  was 
Unity's  niece  on  her  father's  side.  And  you'll  find  that 
she'll  do  for  Martin  what  her  aunt  did  for  me.  I've 
figured  it  out  in  my  mind,  and  I  've  very  little  doubt  that 
'twill  happen  so.  She'll  be  the  south  wind  to  Martin 
and  temper  his  fierce  justice  with  her  mercy.  She  '11  larn 
him  what  pity  means  and  show  him  how  'tis  only  the 
strongest  know  the  meaning  of  pity,  and  only  the  justest 
know  what  it  is  to  forgive.  I  ban't  very  strong.  Tiger. 
I  thought  I  was  once,  but  'tis  borne  in  upon  me  since 
I've  come  to  be  a  widow-man  that  I  ban't  very  strong; 
but  I  've  got  a  good  power  of  forgiveness  in  me,  and  I  've 
come  to  know  this :  that  to  forgive  them  that  ill-use  you 
is  the  very  best  thing  for  your  own  heart  that  you  can 
practise.  That's  where  poor  Jesus  was  the  greatest  man 
that  ever  came  among  men.  He  larned  the  world  for  all 
time  that  forgiveness  don't  stop  at  the  forgiven.  It's 
food  and  drink  and  life  to  them  that  use  it.  You'm  a 
better  man  every  time  you  pardon  a  wrongdoer.  'Twas 
Barbara  pointed  out  that  to  me  once,  when  I  went  smart- 
ing to  her  under  some  outrageous  wrong  as  had  been 
thrust  upon  me ;  and  I  thought  upon  it  and  proved  the 
truth  of  it." 

"No  doubt  all  you  say  is  true,"  answered  the  other, 
"and  I'm  sure  none  ever  talked  better  sense.  'Tis  easy 
to  say  these  wise  things,  no  doubt,  if  you've  lived  in  the 
world  so  long  with  your  eyes  open  as  what  you  have, 
master.  But  'tis  terrible  hard  to  do  'em  at  the  right 
moment. ' ' 

Before  the  time  was  come  for  Martin  to  return,  Oulds- 
broom  had  entered  upon  a  tranquil  phase  of  life.     One 


366  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

heavy  drinking  bout  he  had  and  only  one.  The  day 
before  Minnie  and  her  husband  would  arrive  at  Hartland 
found  the  master  up  betimes.  He  purposed  to  catch  a 
dish  of  trout  for  his  daughter-in-law,  and  set  off  to  the 
upper  reaches  of  East  Dart  at  dawn. 

Sport  here  proved  bad,  and  presently  Philip  climbed 
the  Moor,  and,  tramping  the  tumulous  lands  behind 
Broad  Down,  entered  the  valley  of  the  river's  western 
branch  and  sought  certain  familiar  rivulets  that  ran 
there. 

Hard  by  these  plains  the  fisherman  struck  Brown's 
House,  and  presently,  after  a  spell  of  more  successful 
angling,  he  returned  to  it  awhile. 

Above  West  Dart  this  ruin  stands,  at  the  top  of  a  little 
square  fosse,  once  sharply  marked,  but  now  sinking  back 
into  the  heath  again.  A  bank,  flung  up  to  make  a  barrier 
between  the  dwelling  and  the  Moor,  was  scarcely  grave- 
high  now.  It  stretched  grass-clad  along  to  where,  upon 
the  northern  side,  ran  fragments  of  piled  stones.  The 
fabric  of  Brown's  House  was  already  reduced  to  stumps 
of  shattered  masonry.  The  entrance  might  yet  be 
marked,  and  two  slant  doorposts  of  granite  still  stood 
there  and  bowed  in  upon  each  other.  The  space  round 
about  showed  no  sign  of  ancient  culture,  and  all  that  re- 
mained of  the  building  revealed  fragments  of  one  cham- 
ber alone.  Three  broken  walls  encompassed  it ;  the  fourth 
was  gone.  Far  beyond  sight  of  human  activity  Brown's 
House  had  stood.  Absolute  wilderness  rolled  and  rose 
and  sank  again  to  the  high  horizons  on  every  side  of  it. 
To  the  north  ascended  a  green  hill,  and  its  crest  was  lost 
in  fog  that  crept  stealthily  along.  Now  it  thinned,  now 
thickened  suddenly,  now  broke  again.  Beneath  were 
great  ranges  of  marsh  stretching  from  the  brink  of  the 
river,  and  over  them,  set  so  closely  that  they  whitened 
the  bog  like  a  thin  fleece  of  snow,  spread  the  silvery 
tassels  of  cotton-grass.  Southerly,  fronting  the  ruin, 
there  swept  that  great  range  of  hills  whose  summits  as- 
cend above  Wistman's  "Wood  and  culminate  at  Crokern 
nigh  Two  Bridges;  while  to  the  west  ascended  Rough 
Tor,  Devil's  Tor,  and  the  sweep  of  the  Bear  Down  hills. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  367 

Here  came  Philip  from  fishing,  sat  among  the  fallen 
stones  and  ate  his  bread  and  meat.  About  him  fed  a 
little  herd  of  Scotch  cattle,  shaggy,  black,  and  dun; 
above  him  a  curlew  wheeled  and  uttered  its  short  alarm 
bark  of  three  shrill  notes. 

The  sportsman  was  well  pleased.  He  knew  some 
humble  tributaries  of  Dart  where  no  rod  went  but  his 
own.  They  were  too  small  to  tempt  a  fisherman,  but 
the  farmer  understood  them  and  had  taken  many  a  trout 
from  them.  He  used  a  natural  fly  and  'dapped'  little 
pools  and  backwaters,  where  none  had  guessed  a  fish 
might  harbour.  Now  a  dozen  fingerlings  and  one  half- 
pounder  lay  on  the  grass  before  him,  and  he  had  hopes 
of  another  dozen  at  dusk.  For  the  present  he  ate  and 
emptied  his  flask;  then  a  great  clump  of  white  heather 
came  under  his  eyes  and  he  thought  upon  Minnie  and 
gathered  it  for  her. 

Presently  he  returned  to  the  ruin  and  speculated  upon 
the  story  told  concerning  it.  Jealousy  was  an  emotion 
unknown  to  Philip.  He  marvelled  that  any  man,  for 
love  of  his  wife  and  fancied  doubt  of  her  faithfulness, 
should  drag  her  to  this  pathless  place  and  immure  her 
beyond  sight  or  sound  of  fellow-creatures;  but  that  a 
man  himself  might  welcome  such  a  spot — that  a  heart 
tormented  by  life,  or  broken  against  some  other  heart 
far  harder  than  itself,  might  seek  these  solitudes  and 
suffer  in  them  beyond  the  reach  of  any  eyes — that 
thought,  while  foreign  enough  to  his  nature,  had  become 
possible  to  Philip's  mind  of  late  years.  His  days  had 
told  him  that  peace  in  such  a  sequestered  haunt  was 
precious  enough  under  some  states  of  tribulation.  The 
heart  that  once  had  found  Job  a  weariness  and  solitude  a 
state  insufferable,  now  not  seldom  welcomed  both. 

Thinking  upon  the  past,  his  pipe  dropped  from  his 
mouth ;  he  rolled  over  and  slept.  For  hours  he  lay  thus, 
while  a  mouse-coloured  heifer  from  the  herd,  deceived 
by  his  stillness,  approached  and  smelt  at  him.  Then  he 
flung  out  his  arm  and  muttered  in  a  dream,  and  she  gal- 
loped away  to  her  companions. 

Philip  woke  sad,  for  his  vision  had  been  of  Unity,  and 


368  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

again  he  had  moved  beside  her.  Seldom  she  visited  his 
sleep,  and  it  was  but  to  colour  his  Avaking  with  cruel 
hunger  for  the  past  v\'hen  she  did  so.  His  mood  changed 
now.  He  fished  no  more,  but  took  down  his  rod,  shoul- 
dered his  creel  and  went  homeward.  Half  a  mile  from 
Brown's  House  he  remembered  his  bimch  of  heather  and 
went  back  and  fetched  it. 

In  the  evening  he  descended  from  Hartland  to  Post- 
bridge  to  make  a  final  small  purchase  or  two  for  Minnie. 
Then  he  turned  into  the  graveyard  and  looked  at  his 
wife's  green  mound.  He  had  set  an  ugly  mass  of  stone 
upon  it  and  many  words.  A  bird  had  smudged  the 
marble  and  he  cleansed  it,  read  the  record  of  Unity's 
virtues,  and  went  home  a  little  comforted  by  nearer  ap- 
proach to  her  dust. 

In  the  evening  he  was  sociable  and  happy  about  the 
final  preparations.  He  gave  Tiger  small  peace  and 
heartened  Martha  White,  who  felt  gloomy  in  that  her 
reign  must  end  on  the  following  day. 

"Have  no  fear,"  he  said.  "She's  not  the  sort  to  see 
you  hurt.  She'll  lessen  your  labours,  not  add  to  'em. 
A  towser  for  work — and  why  not  ?  My  son  would  never 
have  took  up  with  a  lazy  girl.  And  her  heart  be  so  soft 
as  curds.  Us  shall  all  shake  down  very  happy,  without 
a  doubt." 

Letters  had  reached  Philip  from  the  wedded  pair,  and 
he  made  Tiger  read  them  and  utter  his  opinions  upon 
them. 

' '  Happy  as  pigeons,  for  certain,  master, ' '  he  said, ' '  yet 
glad  enough  to  come  home — regular  looking  forward  to 
it,  you  might  say." 

On  the  morning  of  the  return  Philip  surveyed  his  sur- 
prises and  was  well  pleased.  He  had  spent  nearly  twenty 
pounds,  for  the  most  part  upon  valueless  ornaments. 
Some  large  oil  paintings,  from  a  sale  at  Moretonhamp- 
stead,  now  decorated  the  parlour,* and  various  ungainly 
vases,  hung  with  cut-glass  prisms,  were  perched  upon  the 
mantel-shelf.  He  had  bought  a  case  of  stuffed  king- 
fishers, for  which  there  was  no  room  anywhere  save  in 
the  kitchen;  he  had  also  purchased  some  curtains  for 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  369 

Minnie's  bedroom  windows,  a  set  of  lacquer  trays,  and  a 
great  deal  of  new  cutlery  and  table  glass.  He  knew  that 
she  liked  sweet  cider  and  had  laid  in  six  dozen  bottles  of 
it  for  her.  He  had  bought  a  wonderful  perambulator 
that  he  saw  exposed  in  a  shop  window  at  Tavistock.  The 
secret  of  this  was  imparted  to  Tiger  alone.  It  came  in  a 
wooden  crate  and  was  carried  down  to  Hartland  cellar 
and  hidden  away  there  under  a  tarpaulin  covered  with 
dried  fern, 

"I  shall  fetch  it  out  with  a  gert  flourish  of  trumpets 
the  day  their  first  be  born,"  said  Philip.  ''How  they'll 
laugh!" 

The  night  closed  with  cheerful  peace.  Mary  French 
had  come  over  from  Teign  Head  at  Philip's  bidding,  to 
help  with  final  preparations,  and  she  and  Martha  joined 
the  men  at  supper.  All  w^as  ready  for  the  return  of  the 
married  pair,  and  Philip  explained  how  that  he  should 
ride  out  as  far  as  the  'Warren  House'  to  meet  them  and 
bring  them  on  their  way. 

"Tiger  have  got  to  come  too,  on  Martin's  own  boss," 
he  said ;  ' '  and  us  be  going  to  trot  along,  one  each  side  of 
the  carriage,  and  make  a  regular  triumphant  procession 
of  it!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

Op  Martin  Onldsbroom,  as  life  progressed  with  him  and 
his  characteristics  hardened  under  pressure  of  the  years, 
it  might  have  been  said  that  he  'scorned  to  trim  his  lion's 
skin  with  lace.'  His  nature  was  resolute,  steadfast,  and 
self-sufficient  among  men.  He  had  a  good  intellect  within 
limitations,  and  a  clear  sight  of  his  own  aims.  Imagina- 
tion formed  no  part  of  his  character,  yet  he  possessed  a 
property  of  mind  that  could  look  ahead  and  see  ahead 
more  clearly  than  can  many  men  of  twenty-one.  He 
knew  himself  unusually  well,  and  he  even  had  wit  to 
estimate  the  worth  of  his  own  ambitions.  He  lacked 
power  to  display  much  amenity,  yet  was  not  indifferent 
to  his  kind.  He  respected  sense  and  strength  of  charac- 
ter when  combined  with  rectitude;  he  exhibited  increas- 
ing impatience  against  stupidity  and  sentiment  as  he 
grew  older.  Tiger  said  of  him  that  he  was  never  uncivil 
except  to  a  fool,  and  that  he  never  cringed  save  to  his 
God. 

The  home-life  of  Hartland  opened  prosperously,  and 
Minnie  at  first  went  full  of  happiness  before  her  new 
duties  and  new  significance ;  but  her  husband  swiftly 
began  to  impress  himself  upon  her.  He  curbed  here,  and 
there  controlled.  He  Avas  didactic  and  insistent.  Easy 
men  gave  way  to  him ;  strong  men  counted  him  as  a  force 
presently  to  be  reckoned  with  in  the  affairs  of  Postbridge. 
He  appealed  repeatedly  to  his  father  for  the  control  of 
the  farm's  finances,  and  at  first  Philip  refused;  but 
presently,  when  convinced  that  Martin  was  right,  he 
gradually  ceded  this  business  to  him.  Everything,  of 
course,  stood  in  his  own  name,  and  he  was  aware  in  six 
months  that  the  future  began  to  promise  more  hopeful 
things.    Once  possessed  of  this  belief,  the  farmer  set  out 

370 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  371 

upon  some  extravagances  in  the  nature  of  a  surprise  for 
Martin,  and  he  bought  a  bracelet  for  Minnie  that  cost  five 
pounds.  That  such  a  toy  did  not  accord  with  her  state, 
and  was  useless  to  her,  Martin  explained  with  some 
warmth.  Whereupon  Philip  fell  into  anger,  and  rela- 
tions grew  strained  for  a  while  between  them. 

The  young  wife  of  Martin  was  called  upon  quickly  to 
determine  her  line  of  conduct  at  Hartland,  and  she  suf- 
fered in  the  process.  But  no  middle  course  opened  for 
her,  and  she  naturally  adopted  her  husband's  attitude  to 
life,  though  her  heart  went  out  to  her  father-in-law.  In 
the  matter  of  the  bracelet  she  estranged  him  for  a  while, 
because  he  held  that  she  ought  to  have  kept  it. 

' '  If  'tis  too  grand  now,  it  won 't  be  presently, ' '  he  de- 
clared. ''Can't  I  see  what's  coming?  Don't  I  know 
that  Martin  be  born  to  be  rich  ?  By  the  looks  of  it,  he  '11 
never  be  anything  else.  But  cash  is  his  guiding  star, 
and  that  he  '11  come  by,  so  sure  as  the  south  wind  fetches 
rain. ' ' 

"  'Tis  far,  far  too  fine,  father,"  Minnie  answered; 
' '  and  you  oughtn  't  to  say  that  Martin  will  be  nought  but 
rich.  He's  rich  already  in  far  more  than  money  or 
money's  worth.  He's  rich  in  goodness  and  rich  in  the 
respect  of  men  that  stand  high.  And  I  wish  you'd  be 
patienter  with  him;  and  if  his  hard  work  and  planning 
and  all  the  rest  of  it  make  for  prosperity,  don't  we  all 
get  the  good  of  it  too  ?  In  your  large  moods  you  are  the 
first  to  grant  that. ' ' 

He  argued  against  her,  however,  and  presently  reduced 
Minnie  to  tears.  Not  at  his  anger  did  she  weep,  but  at 
the  hard  things  he  spoke  against  her  husband.  Then  she 
dried  her  tears  and  was  angry  with  him,  in  so  far  as  her 
nature  could  achieve  anger. 

"I  won't  hear  it,  I  won't  hear  it!"  she  cried.  "You 
don't  know  what  you're  saying,  father.  'Tis  horrible 
that  you  can  even  think  such  terrible  things  against  him ; 
and  him  for  ever  wondering  how  best  to  further  you  and 
better  life  for  you.  And  never  a  day  but  he  names  you, 
when  him  and  me  kneel  morning  and  night  together. 
And  I  ask  for  you  too. ' ' 


372  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

The  picture  of  their  united  petition  softened  Philip 
instantly.  It  was  not  the  prayer  that  moved  him,  but  the 
spectacle  of  the  young  things  side  by  side,  each  actuated 
by  affection  for  him. 

"You  silly  little  fools!"  he  said.  "Pray  to  Hartland 
Tor,  or  the  hawk  perched  atop  of  it — they'll  hear  you 
sooner  than  your  blessed  God.  Such  things  be  as  vain  as 
the  noise  of  the  cow  that  bellows  for  her  dead  calf ;  but 
the  thought  in  your  young  minds  that  forced  you  to  think 
of  this — that's  not  vain,  and  I'm  the  better  and  happier 
for  hearing  tell  about  it.  And  for  this  trinket,  I'll  take 
it  back  and  get  summat  else  instead  as  won't  be  too  tear- 
ing fine.  All  the  same,  it  don't  become  Martin  to  think 
that  the  queen's  crown  would  be  too  fine  for  your  little 
head,  and  I  'm  ashamed  of  him  that  he  could  do  so. ' ' 

Light  succeeded  darkness  in  the  home ;  then  light  was 
swallowed  up  by  darkness  again.  Martin  knew,  long  be- 
fore the  end,  that  it  could  not  last,  but  he  desired  one 
sequel  and  waited  in  patient  hope  that  the  first  step 
might  come  from  his  father.  Minnie  begged  that  he 
would  leave  Hartland  and  live  in  his  own  house  hard  by, 
and  Gertrude  Crymes  also  favoured  this  idea ;  but  Mar- 
tin did  not  want  to  go  if  such  a  step  might  be  prevented. 
He  had  other  views  for  his  house  and,  when  the  time  for 
Tiger's  marriage  came,  chose  Tiger  for  tenant  and  felt 
pleased  to  get  him. 

Martin  was  very  patient  with  Philip  Ouldsbroom,  but 
he  was  also  firmer  as  time  passed.  His  tact  increased, 
and  in  most  directions  he  did  what  seemed  good  to  him. 
Philip  now  generally  agreed  to  his  propositions  and  alter- 
ations, so  long  as  the  younger  man  first  consulted  him. 
But  any  work  undertaken,  any  change  effected  without 
his  knowledge,  served  to  make  him  stubborn  and  angry. 
Twice  he  demolished  Martin's  plans  thus  set  into  opera- 
tion without  his  sanction,  and  those  particular  improve- 
ments he  never  would  hear  of  again,  though  in  each  case 
the  thing  intended  must  have  proved  of  value. 

There  came  an  hour  when  Martin  and  Philip  quarrelled 
about  Tiger.  The  difference  was  trivial  but  awoke  some 
fervour  between  them  before  Philip  had  his  way.     It 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE^  373 

related  to  Tiger's  work,  and  Martin  raised  the  question 
because,  on  the  occasion,  Tiger  and  Mary  were  coming 
back  to  Hartland.  Martin's  house  was  ready  for  them, 
and  their  wedded  life  would  begin  in  it.  But  young 
Ouldsbroom  held  this  a  good  opportunity  to  reorganise 
the  labour  scheme  of  the  farm,  and  his  plans  involved 
certain  redistribution  of  work  that  Philip  refused  to 
sanction.  He  had  indeed  relegated  this  department  to 
Martin,  and  it  was  understood  that  Martin  henceforth 
controlled  the  men  absolutely ;  but  Philip  contended  that 
the  proposed  changes  were  not  reasonable.  The  younger 
man  yielded  now,  for  reasons  that  presently  appeared, 
and  Ouldsbroom  had  his  way;  but  the  victory  did  not 
hearten  him.  Much  had  fallen  out  of  late  that  caused 
him  discomfort,  and  not  the  least  of  his  discoveries  was 
this:  that  Tiger  made  a  very  great  deal  of  practical 
difference  to  his  waning  joy  in  life.  Since  first  he  came 
there,  Tiger  had  never  been  absent  from  Hartland  for 
more  than  a  day  or  two  until  the  occasion  of  his  honey- 
moon. And  during  these  ten  days  Philip  missed  him 
exceedingly.  He  went  off  now  to  meet  him  through  a 
still  November  evening. 

The  hour  was  three  o  'clock  when  he  started,  and  faint 
sunlight  brought  out  slant  shadows  of  hedges  stretched 
over  the  dim  and  dewy  fields.  He  climbed  Merripit  Hill 
and  gazed  back  a  moment  over  the  little  theatre  of  his 
days.  Postbridge  lay  darkling  under  its  grove,  and  here 
and  there  about  the  vale  ascended  a  feather  of  blue 
smoke,  bright  against  the  gloom  of  earth  and  naked 
boughs.  Some  of  the  newly  ploughed  fallow  was  dark 
as  a  patch  of  night  spread  against  the  pallor  of  meadows, 
whose  herbage  at  this  season  appeared  to  have  had  all 
green  soaked  out  of  it.  A  spatter  of  copper  still  clung 
to  the  beeches,  but  the  bulk  of  their  sodden  foliage  was 
heaped  in  the  water-tables  by  the  way,  or  flung  out  upon 
the  roads  and  heath.  The  fens  were  livid  with  dead 
grasses  and  white  with  pools  of  rain;  the  furze  brakes 
shone  bright  green  in  the  vigour  of  the  year's  growth. 
Already  rows  of  little  agate  buds  began  to  round  among 
their  thorns  for  the  pageant  of  another  spring.    At  one 


374  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

spot  on  the  hill  spread  an  exotic  splash  of  wonderful 
colour  amidst  the  sobriety  of  local  harmonies.  Three 
acres  of  purple  cabbage  adorned  a  sloping  croft,  and 
their  medley  of  amethyst  and  rose,  their  subtle,  glaucous 
passages  of  blue-green  and  grey,  made  a  sheet  of  sheer 
splendour  seen  from  afar.  Like  a  jewel  the  great  square 
of  luscious,  sprawling  foliage  shone  upon  the  bosom  of 
the  darkness,  and  caught  amid  its  own  opal  harmonies 
no  little  of  the  pale  blue  sky-colour  spread  above  it.  Set- 
ting sunshine  flushed  it  also,  and  the  mass  burnt  into  a 
gracious  warmth  of  genial  splendour  as  the  light  went 
westerly  and  developed  an  evening  glow.  Even  Oulds- 
broom  marked  this  rare  colour  and  pulled  up  a  minute  to 
look  at  it  while  he  filled  his  pipe. 

"My  word,  how  them  cabbages  do  blaze!"  he  said  to 
a  man  who  passed  him  driving  bullocks. 

Presently  the  farmer  drank  at  'Warren  House,'  and 
waited  there  for  Tiger  to  arrive.  Jonathan  French  was 
also  present,  with  a  message  for  his  returning  sister  from 
her  family,  and  Mr.  Twigg  sat  by  the  fireside  in  the  bar. 
His  legs  had  now  failed  him,  and  he  could  wait  upon  his 
customers  no  more. 

"  'Tis  hard,  Greg,  as  you  who  have  dealt  in  good  liquor 
all  your  life  should  be  water-logged  yourself  at  the  end, ' ' 
declared  Ouldsbroom,  alluding  to  the  publican's  in- 
firmities. 

' '  It  seems  hard  to  you,  neighbour,  no  doubt, ' '  answered 
Gregory.  "No  doubt  it  seems  hard  that  activity  such 
as  mine  should  be  cut  short ;  but  you  must  remember  Who 
did  it.  One  Who  does  nothing  without  His  everlasting 
reason,  and  only  according  to  His  everlasting  plan.  I  'm 
being  moulded  for  the  next  world  now.  The  time  is  near. 
One  sees  His  work  at  every  turn  lately.  He  seems  to  be 
giving  a  wonderful  deal  of  attention  to  Dartmoor  just  at 
present.  Take  that  unruly  member,  Adam  Truscott.  The 
Lord  have  struck  him,  and  never  did  I  know  such  a 
broken  and  a  contrite  heart  as  he  be  showing  since  his 
accident. ' ' 

But  Philip  scoffed. 

"A  broken  leg,  you  mean;  and  a  heart  only  contrite 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  375 

so  long  as  the  leg's  no  use.  Wait  till  he's  up  on  his  pins 
again,  and  you'll  see  all  about  his  heart." 

Twigg,  however,  held  that  Truscott  was  saved.  He 
revealed  an  uplifted  mood,  and  appeared  pleased  with 
himself  in  an  unusual  degree. 

' '  I  know  the  signs, ' '  he  said,  ' '  and  never  did  I  strike  a 
better  blow  for  the  Lord  than  when — ill  as  I  am — I  got  in 
my  pony  trap  and  hurried  off  to  Adam's  bed  of  sickness. 
I  won  him  and  talked  and  talked  while  I  felt  my  legs 
swelling  to  mountains  under  me.  'Twas  a  brave  bit  of 
work  and  will  go  to  my  account,  with  others  like  it. ' ' 

"So  it  will,  so  it  will.  Brother  Twigg,"  said  a  Little 
Baptist  who  was  present. 

"Ah!"  declared  Philip,  "you'll  have  a  grand  time 
reading  over  your  pages  in  the  Good  Book,  Gregory. ' ' 

"So  he  will  then,  and  very  pretty  reading  'twill  be," 
cried  Mr.  Twigg 's  admirer.  "I  wish  us  common  people 
could  be  so  hopeful." 

"Don't  say  that,"  answered  the  publican.  "Trust 
me,  neighbours,  I'm  just  a  man  like  yourselves." 

But  he  spoke  as  though  he  did  not  expect  them  to 
believe  it. 

"And  as  to  you,  Ouldsbroom,"  he  continued,  "why 
for  should  you  flout  me  because  I  tell  truth?  And  why 
for  must  I  speak  truth  of  other  men  and  not  of  myself? 
Would  the  Lord  think  any  better  of  me  if  I  said  worse  of 
Mr.  Gregory  Twigg  than  I  know  of  Mr.  Gregory  Twigg? 
It  may  ask  for  a  brave  mind  to  tell  the  world  that  we 
are  good;  but  if  you  walk  with  your  Maker,  same  as  I 
have  done,  you  catch  a  bit  of  /our  Maker's  wisdom,  and 
I'd  be  doing  a  poor  service  to  Him  Who  has  made  me 
what  I  am,  if  I  pretended  His  trouble  had  been  wasted. ' ' 

"Well,  well,"  answered  Philip,  "no  doubt  you  know 
best.  And  when  the  fiery  chariot  calls  to  drive  you  up 
into  heaven,  may  I  be  here  to  help  the  send-off." 

"You're  hopeless,"  answered  Mr.  Twigg,  not  ill- 
pleased  at  the  picture  Philip  presented.  "But  don't 
imagine  that  I  'm " 

He  was  interrupted,  for  a  trap  drew  up  at  the  inn  and 
Tiger  appeared  with  his  wife. 


376  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

They  were  greeted  with  warmth,  and  Mr.  Twigg  in- 
sisted on  making  them  take  some  refreshment.  He  also 
produced  a  bottle  of  ginger  wine  for  Mary. 

"My  wedding  present  to  you  and  Tiger  here  was  an 
appeal  to  the  Throne,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you'll  bring 
him  to  Grace,  Mary,  and  that  afore  many  days  have 
passed.  But  take  this  bottle  too.  I  wish  you  well, 
though  I  don't  hide  it  from  you  that  more  than  once 
your  husband  has  said  things  that  were  not  what  they 
ought  to  have  been,  coming  from  him  to  me.  However, 
we  will  let  the  dead  bury  their  dead. ' ' 

Tiger  was  preoccupied  and  spent  but  a  few  minutes 
at  the  'Warren  House.'  The  young  man  desired  to  be 
alone  with  Philip  and  hear  how  he  was  faring.  He  also 
possessed  an  item  of  news  for  Ouldsbroom's  ear. 

They  departed  quickly,  and  Philip  rode  beside  the  trap 
that  was  conveying  the  married  couple  home.  "When 
they  were  arrived  and  the  vehicle  had  gone.  Tiger  left 
Mary  in  her  new  home  and  walked  awhile  with  the 
farmer.    Dusk  had  fallen. 

"As  for  us,  all's  well  by  fits  and  starts — more  cloud 
than  sunshine,  no  doubt.  But  now  that  you're  back,  I 
shall  be  home  more.  IMartin  have  bought  up  they  two 
cottages  by  Lesser  Merripit.  You  know  the  ones.  He 
axed  me  first,  of  course,  and  I  didn't  see  no  objection. 
Busy  as  a  bee  he  is.  My  darter-in-law's  all  right.  So 
be  the  people  at  Stannon.  And  Saul  Hext,  to  the  post- 
office,  have  lost  that  ailing  child.  A  very  good  thing  the 
poor  scrap  be  gone,  for  she  'd  never  have  growed  straight. 
I  seed  her  and  made  her  laugh  the  very  day  before  she 
died." 

He  related  his  news ;  then  Tiger  spoke. 

"You'm  looking  pretty  well;  and  me  and  Mary  be 
happy  as  birds.  But  I  heard  from  Mister  Martin  this 
morning.  He  wrote  very  civil — kind,  you  might  say. 
But — well,  you'd  best  to  read  it.  My  eternal  welfare  be 
bothering  him  above  a  bit.  He  says  that  he  thought  solid 
for  the  whole  ten  days  I  was  honeymooning,  and  he's 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  to  speak — 'twas  his 
duty." 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  377 

Philip  looked  anxious. 

"  'Duty' — eh?  When  he  names  the  word  'duty,'  'tis 
generally  along  with  some  damned  unpleasant  talk  or 
act.    What 's  the  matter  now  ? " 

"Read,"  answered  the  other. 

Then  he  handed  Philip  a  letter  and  struck  matches,  by 
which  he  was  able  swiftly  to  decipher  Martin's  clear 
business  hand. 

' '  He  wants  for  me  to  go  to  church  or  chapel  in  future, 
you  see.  He  says  that  he  holds  himself  responsible  for 
the  souls  of  them  he  reigns  over,  and  that  he  can't  have 
no  ungodly  man  or  M'oman  at  Hartland.  He  writes  it 
very  nice,  and  he  says  that  a  time  will  come  when  I  shall 
know  he  is  right  and  when  I  shall  thank  God  for  it. ' ' 

"God — God!"  cried  Ouldsbroom.  "Little  enough 
that  frozen  man  knows  of  God !  Ungodly — you  ?  Well, 
well — so  he  be  going  to — there.  I  can't  do  nothing. 
Take  your  stinking  letter  and  put  it  in  the  pigs'  house — 
to  sweeten  it.    What  does  Mary  say  ? ' ' 

Tiger  laughed. 

"Mary's  above  a  little  thing  like  this." 

"A  little  thing!" 

"So  she  calls  it.  I  was  a  bit  savage  myself  when  I 
read  it  first;  and  then  she  read  it  and  made  light  of  it. 
'  The  question  be,  shall  us  go,  or  shall  us  bide  ? '  I  said  to 
her;  but  she  shook  her  head.  'That's  not  the  question 
at  all, '  says  Molly,  '  the  question  don 't  lie  between  going 
or  stopping;  it  lies  between  church  and  chapel — that's 
all.  You  don't  throw  up  Hartland  for  a  thing  like  that 
— not  if  I've  got  anything  to  say.'  " 

' '  Never  listen  to  her, ' '  answered  the  other  man,  ' '  This 
touches  deeper  things  than  she  knows  about.  'Tis  the 
liberty  of  the  subject.  'Tis  tyranny.  He  might  so  soon 
tell  you  how  to  vote  as  how  to  pray.  'Tis  the  spirit  of 
the  old  time  come  again,  when  a  man  couldn't  call  his 
soul  his  own,  or  his  body  either.  'Tis  the  damned  old 
spirit,  when  parson  and  squire  ran  the  parish  and  ex- 
pected every  man,  woman,  and  child  to  bend  the  knee 
to  'em.  You  get  up  to  Hartland  to-night  and  tell  my  son 
that — better  still — I'll  do  it.    I'm  master  yet — ban't  I?" 


378  .         THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

' '  Of  course,  of  course  you  be.  But  you  must  remember 
that  with  the  weight  of  years  you,  very  properly,  let  him 
take  this  and  that  off  your  shoulders.  You  gave  him  the 
control,  and  you  were  right  to  do  it.  I  'm  not  angry  with 
Mister  Martin,  and  I  hope  you  won't  be.  From  his  point 
of  view  he's  in  the  right,  and,  after  all — what  is  it? 
Church  and  chapel  be  harmless  places.  'Tis  only  a  black 
coat  of  a  Sunday  and  a  quiet  hour  or  two  along  with 
Mary." 

But  Ouldsbroom  would  not  hear  of  it.  He  argued  for 
the  principle,  and  such  was  his  rooted  hatred  of  any 
recognised  dogma  or  form  of  worship,  that  he  uttered  a 
command  and  bade  Tiger  at  peril  of  his  friendship  resist 
this  despotic  order. 

Finally  Tiger  promised  that  he  would  ask  for  a  week 
in  which  to  decide.  His  wife  had  already  argued  him 
into  acquiescence;  but,  for  Philip's  sake,  he  undertook 
to  do  nothing  immediately.  Storms  darkened  the  air  of 
Hartland,  and  Philip  demanded  his  rights  in  the  matter. 
Martin  offered  to  yield  his  authority  if  his  father  wished 
it;  then  Ouldsbroom,  mollified,  argued  for  liberty  of 
conscience  and  no  more. 

Finally,  in  secret,  he  decided  to  get  new  work  for  Tiger 
and  find  him  a  position  of  improved  importance  else- 
where. He  believed  this  easy,  and  for  his  own  part,  since 
he  spent  less  and  less  of  his  days  at  home,  he  assured  him- 
self that-  he  might  see  more  of  Tiger  if  he  was  away. 
Without  revealing  his  purpose,  he  scoured  the  country, 
explained  to  farmers  that  Tiger  of  Hartland  was  in  the 
market,  cried  his  fame  and  stated  the  weekly  wages  that 
he  had  a  right  to  command.  But  his  efforts  to  find  a 
place  worthy  of  his  friend  were  futile.  None  felt  pre- 
pared to  pay  the  money  that  Tiger  was  supposed  to  de- 
serve; indeed,  Philip's  own  credit  was  quite  gone  now. 
His  contemporaries  had  nearly  vanished  from  the  fore- 
most rank ;  and  the  rising  generation  did  not  take  him  . 
seriously.  Some  were  civil  and  gave  him  drink  and  lis- 
tened to  his  speeches;  others  were  too  busy  to  consider 
him  and  sent  him  off  with  a  short  answer.  He  was  grown 
shabby  and  careless  of  his  clothes  now ;  folk  who  did  not 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  379 

know  him  guessed  that  he  could  be  little  better  than  a 
tramp. 

The  result  of  this  general  canvass  on  behalf  of  Tiger 
did  Philip  harm,  for  he  found  less  sympathy  and  kind- 
ness in  the  world  than  he  had  expected,  and  the  lack 
angered  him  unreasonably  against  all  men.  He  made  no 
mention  of  his  failures  to  Tiger,  and  he  submitted  with 
but  a  mild  explosion  of  contempt  when  the  young  man 
told  him  that  Martin  was  to  have  his  way. 

One  negative  comfort  arose  from  the  decision :  Mary 
had  determined  to  go  to  church  and  not  chapel. 

As  for  Tiger  himself,  his  own  private  plans  were  long 
since  matured.  He  meant  to  stop  at  Hartland  while 
Philip  lived;  but  knew  that  he  would  leave  it  a  month 
/9iterwards. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Martin  Ouldsbroom's  wife  was  with  child  before  the 
winter  returned,  and,  upon  that  promise,  the  young 
husband  found  himself  faced  with  the  weightiest 
problems  that  life  had  yet  proposed  to  him.  Anxiety 
tempered  satisfaction.  His  sober  mind  looked  forward, 
and  even  had  he  been  disposed  to  evade  the  difficulties 
that  threatened,  or  postpone  solution  until  their  in- 
cidence, that  was  not  possible,  because  already,  and  daily, 
from  the  mouth  of  Philip  he  heard  the  gravity  of  the 
danger. 

Ouldsbroom  was  overjoyed.  He  exalted  Minnie  above 
all  people,  and  began  his  plans  and  projects  for  spoiling 
the  future  child  by  spoiling  its  mother.  His  activity 
was  boundless,  his  energy  unceasing.  He  wasted  pounds 
upon  surprises  for  Minnie,  and,  hidden  from  him  in  the 
exasperated  company  of  her  husband,  not  seldom  she 
wept  at  the  futile  follies  he  committed. 

The  farmer's  altruism,  now  relieved,  by  his  own  im- 
pairment, from  rational  control,  ran  into  excesses;  yet 
such  was  the  fervour  of  the  old  heart  that  planned,  that 
to  chide  or  resent  his  unsleeping  energies  had  taxed  a 
harder  spirit  than  Martin's.  Only  he  could  attempt  con- 
trol, and  the  result  seldom  proved  successful. 

' '  Master  ought  to  have  a  keeper,  and  that 's  the  truth, ' ' 
confessed  Tiger.  "My  wife  says  that  he's  like  a  good 
fairy  gone  weak  in  the  head;  and  there  it  is  in  a  nut- 
shell." 

But  not  even  Tiger  could  stem  the  inevitable  catas- 
trophe. Martin  debated  slowly  with  himself  and  came 
to  no  hasty  conclusion.  To  bring  up  a  child  under  the 
same  roof  with  Philip  was  to  ruin  a  child.  Ruin  actually 
waited  for  the  unborn,  and  he  could  see  nothing  ahead 

380 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  381 

but  eternal  and  unthinkable  friction  from  the  hour  that 
his  offspring  came  into  the  world.  His  duty  to  the  child 
stood  high  above  any  other  human  obligation  in  the 
young  man's  regard.  He,  too,  had  laid  his  plans  and 
weighed  the  responsibilities  of  fatherhood. 

The  question,  reduced  to  simplest  dimensions,  soon 
confronted  him.  Either  his  wife  and  he  must  leave 
Hartland,  or  his  father  must  do  so.  For  the  sake  of  his 
future  property  he  mourned  the  necessity  of  choosing; 
but  greater  interests  stood  at  stake,  and,  since  it  was  im- 
possible again  to  suggest  that  Philip  depart,  Martin, 
after  long  thought  and  pain,  determined  to  leave  his 
home.  Minnie  begged  him  to  come  to  no  decision  until 
her  child  was  born,  and  Tiger,  to  whom  he  also  declared 
his  purpose,  foretold  that  such  a  step  would  mean  final 
ruin  for  Ouldsbroom. 

"You're  the  only  drag  left  on  the  wheel,"  he  said. 
"I  do  what  I  can,  and  that's  a  good  bit;  but  you've 
got  the  influence  where  it's  a  serious  thing.  Master 
knows,  when  he  stops  to  think,  that  you  be  in  the  right 
most  times.    He'll  never  hear  of  your  going  off." 

"I  shouldn't  go  far — only  to  one  of  my  two  houses  at 
Lower  Merripit.  Of  course  the  easy  way  out  of  the 
difficulty — but  that 's  no  use,  and  I  won 't  even  mention  it. 
I  might  be  nearer  eveif.  I  might  take  your  house,  Tiger, 
and  you  could  get  over  to  Merripit  or " 

He  broke  off,  inspired  by  a  promising  thought. 

' '  How  would  it  be  if  you  and  your  wife  came  to  Hart- 
land  and  I  and  my  wife  went  and  lived  in  your  house  ? ' ' 

Tiger  offered  one  objection,  but  that  was  final. 

"Mary  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  for  all  the  world," 
he  said. 

The  other,  however,  demanded  that  this  point  should 
be  left  open.  It  struck  him  that  only  so  might  the 
problem  be  solved,  and  it  was  not  until  Tiger  pointed 
out  another  objection  that  he  abandoned  the  hope. 

"Even  if  it  happened,"  said  the  elder,  "what  good 
would  be  served?  My  house  ban't  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  Hartland,  and  if  the  old  boy  can  get  at  your  babby 
here,  he  can  just  as  easy  there.    No  matter  where  he  is, 


382  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUET 

to  a  good  mile  or  two,  he'll  be  running  after  the  child — • 
unless  you  was  to  forbid  it.  And  even  you  can't  do  that, 
I  reckon." 

"I  can  do  it  and  I  shall  do  it  if  my  child's  welfare  is 
the  question.    A  child  is  more  than  a  parent." 

"Why  for  worry?  Lord  knows  what  may  fall  out 
betwixt  now  and  June,  and  my  wife  tells  me  your  little 
one  ban 't  due  till  then. ' ' 

"It's  not  my  way  to  be  unprepared.  And,  for  my 
father's  sake,  the  sooner  he  knows  my  ideas  the  better. 
Then  he'll  be  ready  to  face  changes." 

* '  Don 't  deny  him  the  child  altogether, ' '  pleaded  Tiger. 
"He's  building  on  it  something  wonderful.  It's  done 
him  good  a 'ready — the  bare  thought  of  it.  Better  us 
hope  the  little  thing  will  work  good  on  him  than  that  he 
works  harm  on  it.  So  busy  is  he  that  he's  forgot  to  be 
drunk  for  a  week;  and  the  nearer  comes  the  time,  the 
busier  he'll  get  for  certain." 

"I  know  that — only  too  well.  I  must  have  the  position 
defined.  I'm  not  here  for  your  advice,  but  to  tell  you 
what  I  propose.  But,  of  course,  my  father's  own  wish 
must  count  in  the  matter — if  it  happens  to  be  within 
reason. ' ' 

A  few  weeks  later  Martin  had  speech  with  Philip,  and 
explained  that  he  desired  changes  at  Hartland. 

They  rode  together  on  an  April  day  and  passed  above 
Dart  on  the  lofty  ridge  of  Broad  Down. 

Martin  then  spoke  plainly  but  patiently.  He  made 
no  disguise  of  his  reasons  for  desiring  the  change,  and 
told  his  elder  that  the  coming  child  must  be  brought  up 
absolutely  in  his  own  way,  and  according  to  his  own 
opinions  of  training  and  education. 

The  collision  was  severe  and  the  result  irretrievable. 
Philip  drew  up  his  horse  to  listen  while  Martin  spoke. 
He  did  not  interrupt  him  but  gazed  with  dull  and  scowl- 
ing eyes  straight  into  the  other's. 

"In  a  word,  your  father  ban't  fitting  company  for 
your  child — is  that  it?" 

"I'm  only  saying  what  I  think  to  be  right.  You  and 
I  have  different  ideas  on  every  subject,  and  you  know 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  383 

the  cruel  strain  that  it  is,  better  than  I  can  tell  you.  My 
child's  immortal  soul  is  in  my  keeping;  you  don't  even 
think  he's  got  an  immortal  soul.  I  hate  the  name  of 
drink;  j^ou  are  under  the  dominion  of  it.  We  cannot 
agree,  and  I  don't  judge  you,  father.  But  I  must  judge 
myself,  and  I  must  listen  to  my  conscience,  and  my 
conscience  tells  me  that " 

"Didn't  I  bring  you  up?  Answer  that  question. 
Didn't  I  do  a  thousand,  thousand  times  more  for  you 
than  a  father  often  does  for  his  son?  Didn't  I  scrimp 
and  starve  for  you  to  be  fat  and  prosperous?  Didn't  I 
send  you  to  school — fool  that  I  was  ?  Don 't  you  owe  all 
that  you  are  to  me  ? ' ' 

"No,  father.  I  owe  my  education  to  you,  and,  in  one 
sense,  I  owe  what  I  am  to  you.  But  not  in  the  sense  you 
mean.  I  don't  think  as  you  think,  and  I  don't  seek  and 
shun  what  you  seek  and  shun.  I  'm  not  built  to  be  what 
you  like.  I'm  different  from  you  every  way  that  I  can 
be.  You  make  me  a  sorrowful  man,  because  while  it's 
in  my  power  to  do  good  and  be  useful  to  everybody  else 
in  my  life,  I'm  powerless — powerless  to  do  good  or  be 
useful  to  you. ' ' 

"And  why?  Because  your  heart's  a  stone  and  you 
was  born  without  any  milk  of  human  kindness  in  you. 
I've  forgiven  and  forgotten  for  twenty  years.  For 
twenty  years,  I  tell  you.  But  I'll  torment  myself  about 
you  no  more.  You're  not  a  man — or  if  you  are,  I'd  like 
to  see  a  devil!  I  hate  you — I  hate  your  shadow.  Take 
all  I've  got — everything — and  my  hate  in  the  bargain. 
I'll  go,  then.  I'll  go  away  from  Hartland — God's  my 
judge  I  will.  You  've  fouled  the  air  of  my  home  for  ever- 
more. And  may  your  blasted  child  be  a  canker  and  a 
curse  to  your  age,  as  you  have  been  to  mine.  You've 
worked  and  plotted  for  this  for  years.  I  've  known — I  've 
known.  I've  seen  it  in  your  snake's  eyes  when  you've 
been  looking  at  me.  And  now  you  've  won  and  I  've  lost. 
I'll  go — so  soon  as  I  can  find  a  corner  for  my  bones  I'll 
be  off.  And  if  the  memory  of  me,  wandering  friendless 
and  roofless  in  the  world,  don't  blast  your  smug  life  and 
poison  your  prayers,  then " 


384  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

He  broke  off,  listened  for  no  reply,  but  galloped  away 
as  hard  as  his  horse  would  take  him ;  while  Martin  stood 
still  and  did  not  attempt  to  follow. 

The  furious  elder  only  stopped  when  a  mile  of  wilder- 
ness stretched  between  them.  Then  he  drew  up  and 
found  that  he  had  come  upon  the  fragments  of  Brown's 
House,  where  it  stood  in  seclusion.  He  dismounted  and 
tramped  hither  and  thither,  deep-plunged  in  a  phlegethon 
that  burned  his  soul  alive.  He  cried  aloud  and  raved 
and  stamped  upon  the  earth.  For  a  long  time  he  moved 
up  and  down;  but  presently  he  sat  upon  the  ruin  and 
slowly  grew  calmer.  His  torture  abated,  his  panting 
bosom  stilled. 

Then  into  his  mind  there  flashed  a  characteristic  re- 
solve, and  an  inspiration,  of  the  extravagant  sort  peculiar 
to  him,  leapt  adult  from  his  rocking  brain.  He  would 
thrust  a  roof  on  this  wreck  of  a  human  home  and  let  the 
walls  shelter  yet  another  miserable  man.  He  would  make 
his  dwelling  here,  and  live  sequestered  evermore  as  a  pro- 
test against  evil  fate. 

Nettles  and  thistles  clove  to  the  rack  of  stone,  and, 
standing  shoulder  to  shoulder,  crowned  it  with  their 
stings  and  spines.  They  were  seemly  company  for  his 
heart  now.  Here,  in  this  immense  ring  of  untrodden 
hills,  with  thorns  for  friends  and  the  foxes  for  company, 
he  would  abide.  The  standing  walls  were  clothed  wifli 
stonecrop,  lichen,  and  ferns.  Moss  clung  between  their 
fragments  and  held  them  together.  They  would  serve 
for  the  short  span  that  he  might  need  them. 

Possessed  with  this  sudden  resolve,  Philip  set  to  work 
there  and  then.  He  dragged  out  the  debris  from  the 
remaining  chamber,  pulled  down  stone  after  stone  and 
flung  them  ready  for  the  builders.  He  trampled  down 
the  nettles,  cut  away  the  grass  and  briars  with  his  knife, 
and  cleared  the  circumference  of  the  ruin,  that  its  nature 
might  be  the  better  judged.  For  three  hours  he  toiled 
here,  and  the  longer  he  worked  the  clearer  dawned  his 
thought.  His  labour  calmed  him;  he  returned  home 
in  peace;  a  sort  of  ferocious  good  humour  marked  his 
attitude  to  Tiger  when  he  met  him. 


THE   THIEF   OF  VIRTUE  385 

For  a  week  he  kept  his  secret  from  Hartland,  though 
others  already  knew  it.  Meantime  he  refused  to  discuss 
the  future  with  Martin  or  Minnie.  Both  strove  to  pro- 
pitiate him,  but  he  cut  them  short. 

"My  plans  be  made,"  he  said.  "Come  the  fit  time, 
you  shall  know  'em.  Have  no  fear  that  I  be  going  to  cast 
you  out.  'Tis  the  other  way  round.  I  know  my  place. 
I  'm  only  a  bad  old  man — not  proper  company  for  Little 
Baptists  and  their  babbies.  I  must  be  hidden  from  the 
wise  and  prudent,  as  your  Book  says.  And  Martin  here 
don't  think  'tis  fitting  I  should  be  revealed  to  babes 
neither.  Of  course  'twould  never  do  for  my  grandchild 
to  know  his  own  grandfather — the  old  man  that  made 
Hartland  what  it  is,  and  was  accounted  a  fair,  honest 
pattern  of  creature  once  on  a  time.  Of  course  such  a 
thing  can 't  be  thought  upon, ' ' 

In  this  spirit  Philip  persisted  for  a  week ;  then  he  told 
them  what  he  had  determined  to  do. 

"And  if  you  think  to  change  me,  you  think  wrong," 
he  said  to  Martin.  "I  can  very  well  die  there,  like  the 
wild  -beasts  die  when  their  time  comes.  They  don 't  have 
none  to  smooth  their  pillows,  no  more  won't  I.  Don't 
pull  no  faces  about  it,  for  though  cant  be  the  staple  of 
your  life  and  your  thoughts,  it  be  lost  on  me.  You've 
done  what  you  set  out  to  do ;  you  've  drove  me  from  my 
own  door ;  and  may  the  lightning  out  of  the  cloud  strike 
me  if,  once  gone,  I  ever  come  back  again. ' ' 

They  strove  with  him,  and  both  Martin  and  his  wife 
implored  the  old  man  to  abandon  his  purpose.  Every 
objection  was  urged  against  his  scheme;  but  the  more 
reasonable  they  sounded,  the  less  he  entertained  them. 

"  'Tis  done,  and  you  may  spare  your  talk,"  he  said. 
"  I  've  planned  all  and  thought  upon  all.  I  shan  't  trouble 
Hartland  and  I  shan't  trouble  Postbridge.  I  shall  take 
my  way  by  West  Dart  to  the  'Ring  o'  Bells.'  There'll 
be  food  and  friends  for  me  there.  For  you  '11  be  surprised 
to  know  that  I  've  still  got  one  or  two  people  in  the  world 
that  ban't  weary  of  me." 

In  private  Tiger  exercised  all  his  powers  of  persuasion ; 
and  Philip,  who  hid  nothing  from  him,  opened  his  heart, 

25 


386  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

showed  him  the  mortal  wounds  of  it,  and  explained  that 
no  power  would  keep  him  at  Hartland  longer. 

"I  ban't  fit  company  for  my  own  grandchild.  'Tis  all 
summed  up  in  that,"  he  said.  ''And  since  my  days  are 
short  now,  I  '11  be  gone,  for  I  wouldn  't  turn  a  dog  out  of 
Hartland  that  loved  the  place,  let  alone  him  as  will  own 
Hartland  presently.  He's  robbed  me  of  my  own.  Tiger. 
He's  snatched  away  what  would  have  been  his  soon 
enough.  Well,  let  him  have  it.  He  shan't  never  say  I 
was  hard  or  unfatherly.  Let  him  have  all — money,  land 
— everything.  I'll  build  up  Brown's  House  and  take  a 
bit  of  cash — just  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together 
and  leave  a  copper  over  for  a  pal.  That's  all  I  want.  He 
can  have  the  rest.  I  don't  envy  him  his  fame,  or  his 
strength,  or  Hartland,  or  any  mortal  thing.  I  only  want  to 
get  out  of  reach  of  his  eyes  and  his  voice  for  evermore. ' ' 

They  could  not  shake  him.  He  had  made  arrange- 
inents  with  a  builder,  and  the  work  was  quickly  set  in 
hand. 

"Westaway  be  going  to  run  up  a  roof  and  a  chimney 
dog-cheap,"  explained  Ouldsbroom.  Method  marked  his 
madness.  All  else  faded  from  his  mind.  He  ignored 
his  farm  and  devoted  his  energies  to  making  the  ruin 
habitable. 

' '  Till  the  first  day  of  October, ' '  he  said,  * '  I  be  in  com- 
mand here,  and  after  that  day  you  can  set  the  dogs  on 
me  if  I  come  inside  the  gate.  But,  until  then,  I've  a 
right  to  bid  you  all  do  as  I  please ;  and  therefore,  come 
Monday  next,  I  order  Tiger  and  Will  Rogers  to  get  up 
over  and  lend  a  hand.  There's  a  lot  to  do,  and  I'm  going 
to  break  up  a  bit  of  ground  and  put  in  a  few  tons  of  lime 
and  plant  potatoes. ' ' 

He  spoke  as  little  to  Martin  as  possible  during  these 
dark  hours ;  but  he  was  kind  and  solicitous  for  Minnie. 
Only,  after  a  time,  the  hard  words  that  he  poured  out 
against  her  husband  fired  the  gentle  woman  into  anger. 
She  knew  what  her  husband  was  suffering;  she  knew 
that  Philip  was  unjust.  To  her  eyes  it  seemed  that  the 
cruelty  and  unreason  lay  entirely  upon  the  side  of  her 
father-in-law ;  and  this  presently  she  told  him. 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  387 

"Can't  you  allow  for  his  nature,  father?  Can't  you 
see  that  he  must  do  what  his  conscience  tells  him  ?  We  'IJ 
go,  and  gladly  go.  We  can  bide  near  enough  to  be  useful, 
and  he  can  be  here  every  day  to  do  your  bidding.  'Tis 
hard  and  very  different  to  your  common  way  to  do  what 
you  are  doing  and  let  the  blame  fall  on  my  husband's 
shoulders.  He's  fretting  about  it,  and  he's  asked  a  score 
of  sensible  people  what  to  do  for  the  best. ' ' 

"No  doubt.  He'll  go  to  anybody  but  his  own  father. 
How  be  a  proud  man  to  live  under  a  roof  where  he's 
despised  and  hated  ?  You  say  that  he  frets.  And  haven 't 
he  got  cause  to  fret?  What's  his  religion  worth  if  he 
can't  keep  the  Commandments?  Ban't  he  told  to  honour 
his  father?  'Tis  a  fine  way  to  honour  me  to  kick  me  out 
of  my  own  house.  And  preaches  at  his  prayer-shop  now, 
I'm  told — tells  'em  how  to  run  with  the  hare  and  hunt 
with  the  hounds,  no  doubt.  He's  larned  that  dirty  trick, 
if  nothing  else.  That's  w^liat  I  paid  his  schooling  for. 
A  fond  fool  was  I ;  and  now  I  be  finding  the  price  of  my 
folly.  She  was  taken  from  the  evil  to  come — his  mother 
was.  I  don't  mourn  for  her  no  more.  I  did  her  a  good 
turn  when  I  killed  her.  'Tis  most  enough  to  make  you 
believe  in  a  watching  God  to  think  that  she  was  hurried 
off  out  of  sight  of  this.  But  she'd  have  stuck  to  me, 
mark  you.  He  needn't  fox  himself  to  think  his  mother 
would  have  bided  here  when  I  was  thrown  out.  Grand- 
child or  no  grandchild,  she  would  have  put  me  first,  as 
she  always  did.  He  wouldn't  have  robbed  me  of  her 
love  and  worship,  though  no  doubt  he'd  have  tried  his 
hardest  to  do  it. ' ' 

Upon  that  Minnie  wept  and  rebuked  him.  He  answered 
roughly,  left  her  and  henceforth  counted  her  with  her 
husband  as  an  enemy. 

When  Tiger  and  another  came  up  to  Brown's  House 
with  their  tools  on  the  appointed  day,  they  found  that 
much  was  already  done.  Ouldsbroom  had  arranged  with 
the  bailiff  of  the  Duchy  to  make  this  solitude  his  home. 
He  had  proceeded  in  order,  and  now  the  walls  were  up 
and  the  timbers  had  arrived  for  the  roof.  Two  rooms 
were  to  be  built.     The  door  opened  from  the  east;  two 


388  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

windows  would  look  upon  the  south.  But  the  labourers 
from  Hartland  were  concerned  with  Philip's  garden. 
Half  an  acre  of  ground,  outlined  by  its  former  enclo- 
sures, subtended  Brown's  House.  Philip  had  already 
mowed  this  patch  and  cleaned  it  as  well  as  he  was  able. 
Now  Tiger  and  Rogers  lowered  down  a  plough,  which 
they  had  brought  in  a  cart  drawn  by  two  horses.  They 
transferred  one  horse  from  cart  to  plough;  then  Tiger 
began  to  break  up  the  land,  while  Will  returned  to  Hart- 
land  for  some  bags  of  brown  lime. 

The  spectacle  of  the  plough  suggested  something  to 
Philip. 

"Be  damned  if  I  hadn't  forgot  my  hoss!"  he  cried. 
"And  us  must  have  a  place  for  my  tools  and  gear  also. 
So  far  there's  nought  planned  but  the  kitchen  and  my 
bedroom  opening  off  of  it;  but,  of  course,  us  must  have 
a  little  lean-to  shippon  'pon  t  'other  side. ' ' 

He  hurried  off  to  the  masons  that  he  might  explain 
this  necessary  addition. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  work  of  making  his  new  home  served  to  sweeten 
Philip's  mind  in  some  directions.  But  while  cheerful 
with  Tiger,  and  with  friends  at  Two  Bridges  or  Post- 
bridge,  he  preserved  steadfast  animosity  against  Martin. 
The  latter  strained  the  resources  of  his  character  and 
strove  with  might  and  main  to  moderate  this  attitude; 
but  for  many  days  he  could  not.  He  sought  counsel  from 
men,  and  guidance  from  Heaven ;  but  no  success  re- 
warded his  labours.  Philip  Ouldsbroom  would  not  hear 
him  and  would  not  heed  those  who  came  as  intercessors 
for  him. 

His  answer  was  always  the  same : 

"He's  cast  me  out.  I've  done  with  him  for  evermore. 
Let  them  as  can  stomach  such  a  man  be  his  friends. 
When  I  was  young  he'd  have  had  no  friends;  but  the 
world's  all  changed  now,  and  simple  hearts  and  plain 
dealing  be  things  of  the  past." 

He  brought  up  his  few  possessions  to  the  hut.  He 
took  very  little  beyond  his  clothes,  his  gun,  his  fishing- 
rod,  and  his  horse.  The  place  was  ready  for  him  by  the 
end  of  November,  and  he  left  Hartland  without  ceremony 
and  without  taking  any  farewells. 

Martin's  hope  at  this  period  was  that  the  old  man 
would  soon  weary  of  his  own  company.  None  more 
sociable  and  social  according  to  his  lights  existed,  and 
those  best  known  to  Philip  foretold  that  a  few  weeks  in 
the  mournful  seclusion  of  Brown's  House  would  tame  the 
farmer's  temper,  reduce  his  spirits,  and  send  him  back 
to  civilisation. 

He  had  made  no  business  plans  with  Martin  and  left 
no  directions  of  any  sort  concerning  the  conduct  and 
administration  of  Hartland. 

389 


390  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

Tiger  approached  the  farmer  twice  upon  the  subject, 
but  he  refused  to  discuss  it. 

"Plenty  of  time;  plenty  of  time/'  he  said.  "I  ban't 
dead  yet,  and  I  don 't  mean  to  die  for  a  good  bit.  I  shall 
get  peace  of  mind  up  here,  and  that's  all  a  man  of  my 
age  can  hope  for.  Peace  of  body's  a  dream  when  you'm 
getting  up  to  seventy  year  old,  or  near  it.  Not  but  what 
I'm  stout  enough.  I  can  go  and  come  by  Wistman's 
Wood  to  the  '  Ring  o '  Bells ' ;  and  there 's  always  a  good 
few  of  the  old  sort  to  give  me  a  welcome  there.  And  as 
for  the  money — sink  the  money — 'tis  the  money  have 
made  that  snake  I  called  my  son  what  he's  come  to  be. 
Let  him  have  it.  Send  lawyer  along  and  I'll  put  my 
name  to  anything  and  everything.  I  ax  for  a  pound  a 
week  and  a  fiver  added  off  and  on  if  I  'm  hard  up.  And 
I'll  have  that  down  in  lawyer's  language — else  he'd  very 
soon  let  me  starve.    The  rest  be  his. ' ' 

Philip  invited  none  to  see  him  save  Tiger,  and  his 
visits  to  Postbridge,  when  once  he  had  taken  leave  of  it, 
were  few.  Occasionally  he  called  on  Saul  Hext,  who  now 
controlled  the  post-office  and  Barbara's  little  shop;  but 
most  people  avoided  him  when  they  could  do  so  without 
rudeness,  and  the  rising  generation  held  him  as  a  mad- 
man. Children  were  told  not  to  speak  to  him,  and  when 
he  came  grinning  to  them  with  kind  words  and  promises 
of  toys,  they  ran  away  and  laughed. 

For  a  month  after  Philip  had  taken  up  his  new  abode, 
Tiger  was  sent  daily  by  Martin  to  see  him,  and  Minnie 
sometimes  wrote  a  letter  begging  him  to  come  to  Hartland 
on  Sundays  and  spend  the  day  there.  But  he  did  not 
come.  Only  once,  when  Martin  was  from  home  on  busi- 
ness at  Exeter,  Ouldsbroom  returned  and  spent  two  days 
with  Minnie.  She  tried  very  hard  to  influence  him,  but 
she  failed.  He  declared  that  he  was  well,  and  more  peace- 
ful than  he  had  been  for  many  years.  He  talked  of  Two 
Bridges  and  the  cheerful  company  there ;  he  had  found  a 
new  friend  in  one  Nicholas  Edgecombe,  a  warrener,  who 
dwelt  in  a  house  as  lonely  as  his  own  at  Wistman's 
Wood. 

**A  very  proper  red  man,"    he    said.     ''He've  be- 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  391 

friended  me  more  than  once,  and  gone  so  far,  out  of 
charity,  as  to  see  me  home  now  and  again  when  I  was 
bosky-eyed. ' ' 

Philip  made  a  very  great  grievance  of  his  present  case. 
To  those  who  would  listen  he  was  never  tired  of  telling 
the  story  of  his  wrongs.  Much  patience  marked  the 
attitude  of  the  elderly  to  Ouldsbroom,  and  not  until  he 
had  wearied  the  bar  of  the  'Ring  o'  Bells'  would  the  kind- 
hearted  publican  urge  him  to  desist  and  go  upon  his  way. 
Many  honestly  believed  him  ill-used ;  the  greater  number, 
knowing  both  sides,  could  not  see  that  Martin  was  to 
blame.  Heated  arguments  arose  upon  the  question,  but 
none  convinced  another. 

Philip  remained  unshaken.  In  the  public  bar  at  Two 
Bridges  a  labourer  declared  one  night  that  he  had  never 
seen  a  thief. 

*'Hast  not?"  asked  Ouldsbroom.  "Then  cast  a  good 
look  at  my  son  next  time  he  passes  by,  and  you  won 't  be 
able  to  say  that  again." 

Rumours  increased  that  the  master  of  Hartland  had 
been  robbed,  and  the  enemies  of  Martin  gladly  believed 
it.  Easy  men  disliked  him  much;  it  was  said  that  he 
always  took  and  never  gave  in  his  dealings.  Therefore 
not  a  few  were  pleased  to  report  that  Philip  had  been 
ill-used  and  that  the  stronger  will  of  his  son  had  tri- 
umphed when  he  left  his  home.  Reports  became  ex- 
aggerated and  many  lies  were  told,  but  Philip  contra- 
dicted none  of  them. 

''The  truth's  uglier  than  anything  that's  said,"  he 
declared. 

The  scandal  grew,  and  Martin  found  that  just  men 
were  being  influenced  against  him.  It  had  been  reported 
that  his  father  was  starving;  that  he  had  cast  him  out 
and  now  only  granted  him  a  pittance.  In  truth,  no  finan- 
cial understanding  was  yet  come  to,  and  Martin  felt  much 
impeded.  Thrice  he  had  endeavoured  to  see  his  father, 
and  twice  Philip  was  not  at  Bro\\Ti's  House  when  he 
called  there.  On  the  third  occasion  he  refused  to  ad- 
mit Martin  and  bade  him  be  gone.  The  lawyers  had 
written   to   Philip,   but   he   had   not   replied   to    them. 


392  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

They  had  sent  messengers  to  him  and  failed  to  find 
him. 

Once  more  Martin  attempted  the  difficult  task  of  speak- 
ing with  Ouldsbroom.  He  rode  up  to  Brown's  House  in 
the  hour  of  evening  light,  when  another  winter  was  at 
hand,  and  he  took  with  him  a  china  basin  containing  a 
pudding  of  which  Philip  was  very  fond.  He  knocked  at 
the  door.  Then  a  voice  shouted  from  a  window,  and  he 
went  round  to  the  front  of  the  house,  leading  his  horse 
by  the  bridle. 

The  old  man  looked  out  at  him.  Philip  now  shaved  no 
.more.  His  thin  hair  hung  white  about  his  ears,  his  chin 
and  cheeks  were  bright  with  a  snowy  scrub  that  shone 
in  the  sunshine ;  his  sanguine  complexion  faded  not,  but 
lines  and  puckers  and  pouches  had  wrecked  his  face.  His 
head  shook  a  little  on  his  short  neck;  only  the  uncon- 
querable blue  of  his  eyes  still  sparkled  from  his  coun- 
tenance, and  seemed  out  of  place  in  that  ruined  frame. 

' '  You ! "  he  said.  ' '  Ban 't  you  weary  of  coming  hither 
to  torment  me  ? ' ' 

"I've  brought  a  pudding  from  Minnie." 

"Get  back  then,  and  poison  a  dog  with  it.  'Twas 
sweet  when  it  left  her  hand — 'tis  foul  since  it  have  been 
in  yours." 

"Father,  I  implore  you  to  be  reasonable.  We'll  leave 
Hartland  to-morrow,  and  thankf ulh^  leave  it. ' ' 

"Too  late  now.  Why  didn't  you  go  back-along,  in- 
stead of  telling  me  to  go  ? " 

"I  never  told  you  to  go,  or  dreamed  that  you  would 
go.  I  meant  to  break  it  to  you  that  I  must  go  before 
my  child  was  born.  D  'you  think  I  arrived  at  that  with- 
out trouble  and  grief  ?  D  'you  think  that  to  stand  by  and 
see  you  killing  yourself  by  inches ? ' ' 

"Don't  ax  me  no  questions,  and  don't  pretend  no 
lies.  I've  done  with  you.  I  sicken  at  the  sound  of  you; 
I  shut  my  eyes  to  get  away  from  the  sight  of  you.  You  're 
a  monster  and  the  snow's  welcome  afore  you,  and  the 
east  wind  and  the  thunder  and  lightning.  I'd  sooner 
be  tored  limb  from  limb  by  savage  beasts  than  home  with 
you  again,  and  I  '11  never  set  foot  inside  Hartland  so  long 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  393 

as  you're  under  the  roof.  And  this  I'll  tell  you  too :  I've 
reached  a  pitch — goaded  to  it  by  you — I've  reached  a 
pitch  where  I  'd  give  the  farm  away  to  the  first  tramp  as 
would  ax  me.  I'd  do  anything — anything.  I'd  burn  it 
down  about  your  blasted  ears,  and  we  'd  see  then  whether 
your  God  would  come  and  put  it  out.  And  I  offered  it 
to  Tiger — d'you  hear  that?  I  offered  it  to  Tiger,  but  he 
wouldn  't  take  it.    More  fool  him ! ' ' 

His  ferocity  wore  itself  out.    Then  Martin  spoke  again. 

"I  beg  you  to  devote  just  a  thought  to  business, 
father." 

' '  Ah !  that 's  all  you  think  of.  Money  be  the  only  sub- 
ject in  your  mean  soul.  Money — what's  money  to  me 
now?  What's  anything  if  you  haven't  got  a  friend?  I 
don't  want  no  money.  Take  it,  keep  it,  breed  it,  choke 
yourself  with  it.  Share  it  with  your  God.  Then  you'll 
be  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone  and  lining  your  nest 
here  and  hereafter." 

"The  papers  they  sent  you " 

"I  lost  'em.    They'm  out  on  the  Moor  somewheres.'* 

"Could  you  meet  a  man  if  he  came  to  the  'Ring  o' 
Bells'?  They'll  make  any  arrangement  you  please.  I 
only  want  working  expenses  and  to  keep  up  your  farm 
for  you." 

"It  ban't  my  farm.  I've  forgot  it.  This  here  place 
is  my  home,  and  I  ax  for  enough  to  keep  me  and  my 
hoss,  and  no  more.  A  pound  a  week  I'll  have,  and  if  I'm 
hard  up  and  hungry  afore  the  next  pound 's  due,  I  '11  ax 
the  foxes  to  lend  me  a  bit,  or  the  criss-hawks  to  catch  me 
a  rabbit.    Have  no  fear  as  I  '11  want  your  money. ' ' 

* '  Could  you  be  down  there  on  Wednesday  next  ? ' ' 

"I'll  be  there,  but  see  you  ban't.  Let  me  have  an 
honest  man  and  not  a  rogue  to  deal  with.  I  only  want 
a  little  of  my  own  back — that's  all.  You  can  keep  the 
rest  and  devour  widows'  houses  and  bleat  your  prayers 

and Begone,  I  can 't  stand  the  sight  of  you  no  more. 

Send  Tiger  if  you  want  me  to  talk  sense.  I  can't  afore 
you — you  make  me  mad.  Keep  away,  for  I  ban't  my 
own  master  always  now,  and  I  might  shoot  you  in  mis- 
take for  a  wolf.    And  mark  this,  Martin  Ouldsbroom — 


394  THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

Little  Baptist  and  father-hater — you'll  be  in  hell  afore 
me  yet." 

His  bitterness  was  very  terrible.  He  shut  the  window 
of  his  room  and  drew  down  a  blind  over  it  to  hide  the 
interior.  Martin  considered  for  a  few  minutes.  Then 
he  left  the  pudding  on  a  stone  in  sight  of  the  window 
and  went  away. 

A  sort  of  understanding  was  presently  arrived  at. 
Philip  signed  documents  giving  control  of  Hartland  into 
the  hands  of  his  son;  and  it  was  arranged  that  Tiger 
should  wait  upon  the  old  man  daily  and  convey  him  reg- 
ular supplies  of  food  and  money. 

For  the  time  another  hand  was  engaged  at  Hartland, 
and  Tiger's  duties  centred  in  Philip.  Martin  made  these 
plans  and  hoped  that  they  might  work  with  some  measure 
of  completeness  and  success  during  such  life  as  remained 
to  his  father. 

Many  had  begged  him  to  have  the  old  man  back  again ; 
many  assured  him  that  a  new-born  infant  could  take  no 
hurt  from  the  presence  of  his  grandfather,  drunk  or 
sober ;  but  upon  this  point  Martin  would  not  yield.  He 
hoped  only  respecting  Philip  now  that  Heaven  might 
busy  itself  on  his  behalf.  Man  was  powerless  to  save 
him;  and  personally  young  Ouldsbroom  saw  the  outcast 
no  more.  He  feared  not  for  his  life ;  but  he  held  it  folly 
to  endanger  that  life  without  hope  of  any  benefit  there- 
from. 

Tiger  did  his  work  well,  and  sometimes  stopped  for  a 
day  or  two  at  Brown's  House.  He  reported  that  Philip 
grew  quieter  and  more  reasonable.  He  had  asked  for  his 
Bible,  and  Tiger  took  it  to  him,  and  often  read  from  Job 
when  the  old  man  had  been  intoxicated  over  night  and 
spent  a  day  in  recovering. 

Philip  seldom  came  to  Postbridge,  but  sometimes  he 
rode  to  the  crown  of  the  hills  and  looked  upon  his  home. 
The  folk  would  see  him  perched  motionless  against  the 
sky  upon  Broad  Down.  For  an  hour  at  a  time  he  might 
gaze  into  the  theatre  of  his  life ;  and  then  he  would  turn 
away  and  disappear. 


CHAPTER  X 

Martin  Ouldsbroom  did  not  permit  trouble  to  ruin  his 
life  or  come  between  him  and  his  purposes.  Immense 
native  energy  was  combined  in  him  with  an  earnest  and 
serious  outlook  upon  affairs.  The  ruling  passion  to  pros- 
per did  not  clash  with  his  religious  enthusiasm.  He  was 
scrupulous,  but  he  was  hard,  and  he  lost  no  chances  to 
succeed  and  improve  his  worldly  position,  while  preserv- 
ing his  standard  of  justice  and  morality.  Unswerving 
rectitude  was  natural  to  him;  his  sole  human  weakness 
centred  in  the  desire  to  be  rich ;  but  it  could  not  be  said 
to  come  between  him  and  the  letter  of  justice  in  all  his 
dealings.  He  had  a  little  money  of  his  father's  to  handle 
now,  and  he  effected  considerable  changes  in  the  old 
securities.  He  held  that  mortgages  were  the  most  de- 
sirable form  of  investment,  and  effected  several  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  of  Hartland.  He  perceived 
possibilities  as  yet  unguessed  in  the  vicinage  of  his  home, 
and  dreamed  dreams  of  prosperous  lodging-houses  at 
Postbridge.  Dartmoor  had  of  late  been  proved  a  valuable 
sanatorium,  and  Martin,  after  some  speech  with  a  phy- 
sician upon  the  subject,  saw  that  money  was  certainly  to 
be  made  if  good  accommodation  for  lung-sick  patients 
could  be  established  upon  the  waste.  As  a  Little  Bap- 
tist, the  yoimg  man  stood  high,  and  bestowed  more  than 
a  tithe  of  his  energies  in  advancing  the  cause  of  that  sect. 
He  believed  his  persuasion  to  be  absolutely  right  and  lost 
no  opportunity  of  assisting  it.  The  Order  of  the 
Rechabites  also  numbered  him  its  ardent  friend.  Tem- 
perance was  the  only  subject  that  had  ever  prompted  this 
level-minded  young  man  to  intemperance ;  but  upon  that 

395 


396  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

subject  he  could  wax  fiery.  He  cast  many  stones  in  many 
directions,  but  not  from  any  glass  house.  Many  hated 
him  for  his  elevated  aridities;  but  none  could  point  to 
errors  of  commission. 

So  he  strove  on  the  side  of  right  and  built  up  a  solid 
holding  in  matters  temporal  and  eternal.  Tiger,  whose 
vocabulary  and  outlook  in  general  had  been  enlarged 
since  he  went  to  church  on  Sundays,  declared  of  young 
Ouldsbroom  that  he  had  learned  how  to  serve  God  and 
Mammon  both. 

' '  You  don 't  know  where  to  have  him, ' '  he  confessed  to 
his  wife.  ''  'Tis  a  case  of  a  chap  who  never  does  a  wrong 
thing,  seemingly.  And  yet,  if  parson  tells  us  true,  there 
never  was  but  one  man  who  didn't  do  wrong.  I  suppose 
he've  got  some  sins  hid.  For  my  part,  I  feel  to  him  like 
some  dogs  feel  to  some  men :  I  can 't  abide  him,  yet  can 't 
give  no  more  than  a  dog's  reason  why  I  don't." 

Mary  understood. 

"Ban't  what  he've  got  that  hurts  you.  'Tis  what  he 
haven't  got,"  she  said.  ''There's  something  left  out  of 
the  man.    He  'm  like  a  quince — never  grows  ripe. ' ' 

' '  Time  may  soften  even  him,  however. ' ' 

"No,"  she  said.  "It  don't  soften  his  sort.  'Tis  the 
rind  of  him  that's  so  hard.  The  sun  can't  get  through 
him.  If  his  old,  doting  father  couldn't  do  it  when  he 
was  young,  nothing  could.  Ban't  Mister  Martin's  fault 
that  few  run  to  him  in  trouble.  I  dare  say  he'd  list  to 
them  ready  enough  if  they  did. ' ' 

"He'd  list  to  them — yes.  He's  civil  and  patient  to  all. 
But  he  never  mixes  no  sweet  with  his  medicine — to  help 
it  down.  It's  like  to  make  you  sick — so  you  lose  the 
good  of  it." 

When  Dr.  Forde  had  speech  with  Martin,  their  meet- 
ing related  to  another  topic  than  Dartmoor  as  a  panacea. 
Philip  had  been  ill,  and  Tiger  had  stopped  with  him  and 
nursed  him  for  ten  days.  Now  he  was  recovering  from 
bronchitis,  and  Martin  made  inquiries  concerning  his 
father  when  at  Princetown. 

"He  oughtn't  to  be  there,"  declared  the  doctor.  "He's 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  397 

a  bit  older  than  his  age  now — thanks  to  hard  drinking. 
He's  strong  enough  still;  but  he  wants  watching." 

With  spring,  however,  Philip  acquired  new  strength, 
and  the  arrival  of  the  child  served  greatly  to  interest  and 
delight  him. 

A  son  was  born  to  Martin,  and  its  advent  rejoiced  the 
mother  and  turned  her  thoughts  into  happy  channels. 

For  Minnie,  marriage  had  proved  different  from  the 
vision  of  marriage.  Her  husband  daily  grew  into  a  figure 
more  remarkable  and  worthy  of  admiration;  but  she 
always  crept  back  in  thought,  like  a  guilty  thing,  to  the 
day  in  the  byre  when  he  asked  her  to  marry  him,  and 
glowed  and  adored  her  with  voice  and  eyes.  She  had 
thought  that  moment  was  the  first  of  many  like  it;  she 
had  supposed  that  each  caress  would  be  closer  than  the 
last,  that  each  kiss  would  be  warmer,  each  act  of  love 
more  glorious  than  the  preceding.  She  had  dreamed 
that  love  was  a  deathless  thing,  lighted  from  clash  of 
two  hearts,  whose  flames  leapt  together  to  burn,  with 
double  brightness  and  double  strength,  for  ever.  She 
had  pictured  their  life ;  she  had  seen  herself  his  guiding 
star,  yet  felt  his  strong  hand  in  hers,  to  help  at  every 
crooked  turn  and  steep  place  in  the  work-a-day  journey. 
And  now  her  head  told  her  that  truth  was  better  far 
than  her  hopes;  that  reality  exceeded  any  girl's  guess 
of  what  reality  might  be.  But  her  heart  cried  out  loud 
while  Martin  slept;  it  cried  out  loud  when  he  rose  and 
dressed  without  putting  his  arm  round  her  or  pressing 
his  face  to  hers ;  it  cried  out  loud  when  he  talked  about 
the  coming  child  and  not  the  coming  mother;  when  he 
was  busy  with  preparations  and  counting  the  cost  to 
himself,  never  to  her. 

He  was  always  right,  always  ahead  of  need,  always 
ready.  He  anticipated  everything,  and  omitted  nothing 
that  those  who  understood  told  him  should  be  done.  But 
she  yearned  for  the  food  he  did  not  give  her ;  for  the  wor- 
ship and  wonder  and  encouragement ;  for  the  pride  at  the 
glorious  thing  she  was  going  to  do  for  him ;  for  the  praise 
before  this  return  that  she  was  bringing  to  his  love. 

And  when  the  child  was  born,  and  Martin  came  to  see 


398  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

her,  he  did  not  stop  one  fraction  of  one  second  after  the 
nurse  told  him  to  go  again.  They  were  alone  together 
for  five  minutes,  and  through  four  of  them  he  knelt  and 
prayed,  with  a  voice  steady  and  controlled,  that  the  boy 
who  had  come  into  the  world  might  prove  a  true  and 
faithful  soldier  in  the  armies  of  the  Lord.  She  said 
'Amen'  when  he  had  done.  It  was  all  he  wanted  her  to 
say.  He  kissed  her  then  and  told  her  the  boy  was  very 
beautiful.    And  that  heartened  her  a  great  deal. 

Philip  won  the  liveliest  satisfaction  from  this  advent, 
and  it  was  clear  that  the  event  improved  his  physical 
condition  through  the  channels  of  the  mind.  He  called 
for  an  increase  of  money  and  spent  it  at  Tavistock  upon 
the  child  and  his  mother.  But  he  would  not  come  to 
see  it  until  Minnie  was  well  and  business  had  taken  her 
husband  from  home.  Then  he  received  the  child  into 
his  arms  and,  with  his  eyes,  fed  hungrily.  He  traced 
imaginary  likenesses,  and  declared  that  the  infant  re- 
sembled Unity. 

Almost  his  first  question  was  the  boy 's  name. 

"I  suppose  you  had  no  hand  in  that?"  he  asked  of 
Minnie. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"There  was  a  lot  of  talk.  My  father  wanted  for  him 
to  be  called  Quinton,  after  him;  and  I  wanted  him  to 
be  called  Martin,  of  course;  and  Tiger  thought  'twould 
please  you  if  he  was  called  after  you,  father.  But  Martin 
had  his  own  opinions.  'I'll  give  him  the  mighty  name 
of  a  mighty  leader, '  he  said,  '  and  I  hope  that  he  '11  never 
live  to  be  unworthy  of  it.'  Baby's  called  Wesley — just 
that  and  no  more." 

"I  hope  as  he'll  live  it  down,  then,"  answered  the  old 
man  grimly.  Then  his  face  softened  and  he  handed  the 
child  back  to  his  mother.  He  asked  after  her  health  and 
rummaged  in  his  pockets  for  gifts  that  he  had  brought 
her. 

He  shared  the  midday  meal  with  her,  and  Minnie  made 
him  eat  as  Avell  as  drink. 

In  the  evening  Tiger  walked  back  to  Brown's  House 
with  him  and  marked  the  deep  magic  of  this  experience. 


THE   THIEF   OF  VIRTUE  399 

"There's  nought  like  a  babe  to  soften  the  heart,"  said 
Philip.  ' '  And  when  'tis  the  fruit  of  your  own  loins,  who 
can  resist  it?  I'm  very  hopeful  about  this,  Tiger;  and 
out  of  my  experience  of  life  I  must  be.  Have  you  marked 
how  my  son  bears  himself  to  the  child  ? ' ' 

' '  He  cares  a  lot  about  it  already. ' ' 

"And  well  he  may  do.  'Twill  change  my  son!  I 
swore  I'd  never  call  him  son  again;  but  there  'tis — 'twill 
out — blood's  thicker  than  water.  I've  held  his  child  in 
these  arms,  and  if  it  can  make  an  old,  savage  man  like 
me  more  gentle  to  the  world,  surely  to  God  'twill  soften 
its  own  father's  heart?" 

' '  He 's  that  gentle  with  it,  you  wouldn  't  believe. ' ' 

"Yes,  yes,  I  would  believe.  Us  have  got  to  be  gentle 
with  the  little  ones;  and  so  us  may  larn  through  them 
to  be  gentle  with  their  elders.  I  have  seen  my  grand- 
child, and  my  hand  be  ready  to  meet  my  son's.  I  know — 
I  understand  how  'twill  be.  The  sight  of  that  poor, 
blinking  little  thing  took  me  back,  back  nigh  a  quarter  of 
a  century,  to  the  day  they  brought  Martin  to  me  from  his 

mother.    I  know  what  I  felt  then,  and  shall  my  son ? 

It  must  come.  I've  great  faith  in  the  power  of  nature. 
Tiger.  'Tis  stronger  than  religion — stronger  than  Little 
Baptists,  or  Rechabites,  or  anything.  It  will  be  heard, 
and  where  Martin  stands  now,  mark  me,  'tis  hammering 
at  his  heart.  He'll  do  a  deed  presently — there  will  come 
a  great  call  to  him  and  he'll  not  resist  it.  The  child  be 
crying  out  and  speaking  to  him  a  'ready. ' ' 

"He's  a  wonder  in  his  way.  All  through  this  job  he's 
not  let  slip  one  minute  from  the  time  he  gives  to  work. 
The  machine  goes  on  just  the  same.  Such  a  time-saver 
I  never  heard  tell  upon.  'Tis  because  time's  money, 
no  doubt." 

"So  much  the  worse.  If  a  man's  firstborn  coming 
can't  jerk  him  out  of  the  rut  of  life  for  a  bit,  'tis  no 
credit  or  vartue  to  him.  But  wait — wait  and  see  what 
that  babe  does.  Wesley  or  no  Wesley,  'twill  bring  me 
back  to  Hartland.  Yes,  Tiger,  you  doubt ;  but  I  feel  that 
be  coming.  'Twill  ask  for  me  afore  it  can  speak.  You 
should  have  seen  how  it  snuggled  to  me!     It  knowed 


400  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

who  I  was!  I  must  get  back.  And  Martin  will  come 
to  feel,  afore  he's  a  year  older,  that  I  must.  He'll  grow 
wiser  every  hour  he  spends  along  with  that  child.  I  tell 
you  there's  nothing  like  them  for  showing  the  proper 
worth  of  things.  Till  he  was  four  year  old  Martin  would 
fling  a  penny  from  him  and  cleave  to  an  old  brown  pine- 
cone,  as  he  loved  better 'n  anything  else  in  the  world. 
The  child  will  take  him  back  and  teach  him,  with  all  the 
cleverness  that  every  baby's  got  in  it,  till  the  world  kills 
it  out  of  'em.    And  then  he'll  ask  me — leastways " 

Philip  faltered  and  looked  at  his  friend  full  of  ques- 
tioning. 

"Won't  he?  Won't  he,  Tiger?  You  seem  doubtful 
about  it.  I  was  that  positive  a  moment  agone,  but  at 
my  age  we  grow  shaky  of  our  own  opinions — except  when 
we'm  drunk.  Won't  he  offer  for  me  to  come  back, 
Tiger?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,  master.  I  don't  think  so.  You'd 
best  not  to  hope  it.  Of  course  you'd  be  dearly  welcome 
back  to-morrow,  and  God  knows  none  but  would  be  the 
better  for  it;  but  Mister  Martin — I  don't  think  he'd  stop 
if  you  did." 

"Not  now  he  knows  what  'tis  to  be  a  father  himself? 
I'll  not  believe  it.  I'll  stake  my  last  hope  on  it.  Tell 
him  how  the  child  came  to  me.  Order  Minnie  to  tell 
him  that  from  me." 

"You  may  lay  your  life  she'll  tell  him  and  make  much 
of  it." 

"I'd  love  to  mind  the  child  for  'em.  I  understand 
childer  very  well.  I've  spent  a  lot  of  my  time  along  with 
them.  You  can  remember  what  I  was  to  you  when  you 
was  a  nipper — can't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  can,  and  never  shall  forget  it." 

"Very  well  then.  I  must  be  there.  I  must  be  there. 
The  child  must  have  a  little  bit  of  my  wisdom  along  with 
the  rest.  'Twill  help  his  mind,  Tiger.  I'll  warm  his 
young,  opening  bud  of  a  heart  just  a  bit — to  temper  the 
east  wind  of  his  father.  It  must  happen  like  that.  And 
he'll  keep  me  out  of  mischief.  Tiger — don't  you  see? 
He'll  do  as  much  for  me  as  ever  I'll  do  for  him.    If  you 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  401 

was  to  put  that  to  my  son,  it  might  carry  a  terrible  lot 
of  weight  with  him. ' ' 

But  time  passed  and  Martin  made  no  such  overture. 
Once,  indeed,  a  few  months  later,  he  desired  to  speak  with 
his  father,  and  Ouldsbroom  readily  consented  to  a  meet- 
ing, because  he  supposed  that  the  great  question  would 
be  asked  and  that  Martin  desired  to  bring  him  back  to 
Hartland.  Such  an  idea,  however,  was  far  from  the 
younger  man's  mind.  Tiger  and  Minnie  had  both 
pleaded,  and  others  represented  the  reasonableness  of  the 
change.  But  nothing  could  modify  Martin  in  that  par- 
ticular. He  was  determined  that  his  child  and  his  father 
should  never  dwell  under  the  same  roof.  The  interview 
he  desired  related  to  affairs  of  business,  and  when  Philip 
found  that  for  this,  and  this  alone,  he  had  come  to 
Brown's  House,  he  drove  the  young  man  from  him  with 
reviling. 

He  continued  to  see  the  child  as  opportunity  offered, 
but  only  when  Martin  was  from  home. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Two  years  passed  by  and  left  Ouldsbroom  but  little 
changed.  Activity  and  life  in  the  open  air  served  to 
counteract  his  intemperance.  It  might  have  been  said 
concerning  him,  as  of  the  Homeric  hero,  that  he  dwelt 
by  the  wayside  and  loved  all  the  world.  Like  Achilles, 
he  craved  only  to  walk  under  the  golden  sun,  and  had 
rather  lived  as  a  man  in  a  peasant's  hut  than  reign — a 
ghost  among  the  shades.  Yet  a  ghost  he  was.  The  shadow 
of  himself,  he  haunted  the  land  of  his  birth,  and  had  al- 
ready passed  from  the  knowledge  of  all  but  a  few.  Mar- 
tin Ouldsbroom  and  the  notorious  evil  endured  at  his 
hands  continued  to  be  his  topic.  While  the  younger  did 
what  he  might  for  the  old  man,  and  spared  no  care  in 
reason  to  preserve  him,  Philip  was  set  for  ever  against 
Martin,  and  cried  out  in  any  ear  that  would  listen  con- 
cerning the  wrongs  that  he  had  suffered. 

There  came  a  day  of  summer  when  Philip  proceeded 
from  Brown's  House  to  his  favourite  haunt  upon  Crow 
Tor.  There,  in  the  cushion  amid  the  granite  rocks, 
nodded  a  dozen  bluebells,  and  the  time  had  come  to 
gather  them.  Martin  was  to  be  from  home,  and  the  wan- 
derer's purpose  might  therefore  be  accomplished.  He 
intended  to  visit  Hartland  and  take  the  flowers  to  his 
grandson. 

"With  the  little  bunch  in  hand  he  went  first  to  Two 
Bridges,  drank  at  '  The  Ring  o '  Bells, '  and  then  trudged 
upon  the  high  road  to  his  old  home.  Upon  the  way  he 
observed  Martin  Ouldsbroom  riding  towards  him.  He 
crept  out  of  sight,  therefore,  and  hid  behind  a  store  wall 
until  the  other  had  passed.  Martin  saw  the  action,  and 
it  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  seen  it.    No  word 

402 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  403 

passed  between  them  now,  and  no  recognition,  for  the 
younger  Ivnew  that  it  was  useless  to  make  an  overture. 

Another  had  also  marked  the  incident.  Nigh  the  spot 
where  Philip  supposed  himself  hidden,  there  sat  a 
vagrant :  a  shabby,  bearded  man,  unclean  and  uncombed. 
He  ate  food  from  a  piece  of  paper  and  basked  in  the  sun. 
His  hat  was  off,  and  his  long,  reddish  hair  began  to  grow 
thin  upon  his  crown.  With  this  sort  of  spirit  the  farmer 
now  claimed  natural  kinship.  He  saw  one  who,  like 
himself,  had  fallen  out  with  the  world.  Therefore  he 
.approached  on  equal  terms. 

"Have  'e  got  a  bite  to  spare,  mate?"  he  asked,  and 
the  other  pointed  to  his  parcel  of  broken  meat. 

"Help  yourself,"  he  said. 

' '  Don 't  think  I  '11  rob  you, ' '  answered  the  elder,  sitting 
down.  "I've  got  a  shilling  in  my  pocket,  and  you're 
welcome  to  it ;  but  for  the  moment  I  'm  a  thought 
hungry. ' ' 

"Not  a  common  complaint  with  you,  I  reckon?"  said 
the  stranger,  regarding  his  face. 

"No — t'other  thing  be  more  in  my  line." 

"Fine  thirsty  weather  this.  Why  did  you  avoid  that 
dapper  young  chap  on  the  brown  horse  ? ' ' 

"Because  he's  my  son,  and  the  meanest  dog  that  ever 
went  on  two  legs.  Only  one  failing  he  has — and  that's  a 
hatred  of  the  man  that  got  him.  I  go  out  of  his  way 
like  that,  so  as  I  shan't  be  driven  to  breathe  the  same 
air  with  him." 

"Tell  me." 

Philip  needed  no  second  bidding.  His  eyes  flashed; 
his  head  shook ;  he  stopped  eating. 

"  I  'm  a  terrible  ill-used  old  man.  My  only  child  hates 
me  and  plots  to  end  my  days.  'Tis  true  as  the  light 
above  us.  I  starved  to  send  him  to  school,  and  then  he 
came  back  and  drove  me  out  of  my  home;  he  drove  me 
out;  and  if  I  was  to  fall  dead  this  minute  he'd  shout  for 
joy.  I  tried  all  that  mortal  could  do.  I  met  him  in 
everything,  yielded  up  everything;  but  he  was  wolf  to 
my  lamb;  I  couldn't  do  right  with  him.  And  even  at 
that  I'd  have  forgiven  him — yes,  I  would.    I'd  forgive 


404  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

everything  in  the  world  but  meanness — that  I  won't  for- 
give. ' ' 

' '  Quite  right.  'Tis  a  filthy  vice,  and  leads  to  all  that 's 
bad." 

"It  has  done  so  with  that  man.  Yet  so  different  he 
was — so  different — till  larning  and  lust  for  money  got 
hold  on  him. ' ' 

"Never  mind.    Eat  and  forget  him." 

The  last  speaker  brought  a  little  flask  out  of  his  pocket. 

"You're  like  me,"  he  said.  "You  take  it  neat.  We 
mostly  reach  that  stage  before  the  end.    Here 's  luck : — 

"To  our  grand  patron,  call'd  Good-fellowship j 
Whose  livery  all  our  people  hereabout 
Are  clad  in. " 

He  drank  and  handed  the  vessel  to  Philip. 

"Forget  yesterday,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "and  remem- 
ber 'you  can't  buy  to-morrow' ;  so  just  live  in  the  present 
and  feel  the  sun  on  your  old  nose  and  don 't  worry. ' ' 

Philip,  however,  was  not  to  be  driven  from  his  theme. 
He  failed  to  perceive  that  here  was  one  fallen  from  a 
higher  estate  than  his. 

"Let  be,"  he  answered.  "Don't  make  fun  but  listen. 
I  was  a  very  jolly  man  once  myself,  and  lived  on  laugh- 
ter ;  but  life  has  long  silenced  that. ' ' 

"Go  on  then.  Yet  I  know  all  you 've  got  to  tell.  I 've 
met  the  like  of  you,  master.  Heart  to  heart  we  are.  I 
understand.  There's  no  place  for  us  in  this  world  now- 
adays. We're  born  too  late  by  the  whole  length  of  the 
Christian  era.  The  joyful,  lazy  old  world  was  our  oyster 
— not  this  busy,  money-grubbing,  snivelling,  canting  one. ' ' 

Philip  took  a  pocket-book  from  his  breast.  It  was  of 
battered  leather,  much  worn  at  the  edges.  A  frayed 
piece  of  paper  appeared  in  it.  The  book  contained  noth- 
ing else. 

"To  show  how  time  will  rot  a  living  man,  who  began 
well — read  that.  When  Martin  was  a  young  youth  a 
snake  bit  him — and  the  poison  of  the  snake  be  in  him 
still.  It  never  worked  out.  And  I  wish — I  wish  to  God 
as  he  had  died  then  and  left  me  a  child's  name  to  love — 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  405 

not  a  man's  to  hate  and  curse  for  ever.  He  lived,  and 
that  was  the  first  letter  ever  my  child  wrote  me;  and 
I  'd  be  a  happier  man  to-day,  and  a  better  man,  if  it  had 
been  the  last. ' ' 

The  tramp  read  a  child's  letter — now  grown  yellow 
and  tattered  and  dirty  from  perusal  under  many  hands. 
Presently  he  returned  it  and  his  voice  had  changed. 

"Can't  you  show  this  to  him  and  ask  him  to  go  back 
and  start  again  ? ' ' 

"He'd  say  that  he  never  wrote  it;  and  he'd  be  right. 
His  mother  lived  in  them  days — as  good  and  grand  a 
woman  as  ever  trod  the  earth.  But  there  w^as  nothing 
of  her  in  him.  Or  if  there  was,  it  worked  out  long  ago. 
I  stand  as  a  witness  against  him,  and  when  I'm  dead  my 
gravestone  will." 

"Perhaps  he  won't  put  one  up.  But  come,  come, 
you're  not  tired  of  the  joy  of  living — else  you  wouldn't 
be  carrying  that  bunch  of  bluebells  with  you. ' ' 

"It  ban't  life,"  declared  Ouldsbroom.  "It  ban't  the 
world,  but  the  damned  people  in  it  that  have  wrecked 
me.  I  'm  not  wishful  to  go,  though  go  I  must  afore  very 
long.  My  heart  have  got  a  bit  of  a  crack  in  it,  they  tell 
me.  'Small  wonder!'  said  I  when  they  did.  But  I'll 
trample  earth  for  a  bit  yet,  afore  it  tramples  me.  I've 
got  two  creatures  to  live  for — you  might  say  three. ' ' 

"Then  you're  rich.  A  man  with  three  friends  is  one 
picked  out  of  a  thousand.    I've  got  none." 

"I'll  be  your  friend!"  answered  Philip  instantly. 
"You've  got  sense  and  you  ban't  above  breaking  bread 
with  a  poor  old  man.  If  you  come  to  Brown's  House, 
where  I  live  up  over,  you  can  have  as  good  as  I've  got." 

"No,  master.  But  thank  you  for  the  offer.  Four 
friends  would  be  too  many  for  any  man.  And  these 
flowers  ? ' ' 

* '  For  my  grandchild  I  've  got  'em.  I  can  tell  you  that 
Phil  knows  a  thing  or  two  yet!  'Tisn't  many  men  can 
fetch  you  bluebells  off  middle  of  Dartymoor,  I  reckon! 
But  I  can — out  of  the  very  midst  of  the  place.  And 
more  than  that  I  know — more  than  that.  A  grandchild 
I've  got — the  son  of  that  mounted  highwayman  as  rode 


400  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

past  a  bit  ago — but  no  more  like  him,  thank  God,  than 
he  be  like  me.  'Tis  my  child,  you  might  say,  and  I'm 
going  to  fetch  him  up  on  my  own  pattern,  and  make  him 
a  credit  to  the  family  instead  of  a  blight  on  it.  He'm 
in  his  third  year — a  very  brave  li  '1  boy — and  I  '11  astonish 
them  in  that  quarter  yet. ' ' 

He  nodded  sententiously. 

' '  The  child 's  your  friend,  I  '11  wager  ? ' ' 

"I  should  just  think  so.  He'll  come  to  me  afore  his 
mother !  But  I  never  go  nigh  him  while  that  man 's  home. 
He  likes  me  better  than  his  father.  His  father  whips 
him — whips  a  child  not  three  years  old — the  cowardly 
dog!  If  I'd  seen  him  doing  it,  I'd  have  torn  his  throat 
out,  old  as  I  am.  Sometimes  I've  thought  in  my  cups 
as  I'd  lay  behind  a  hedge  for  him  and  rid  the  world  of 
him.  But  I  wouldn't  do  that.  I'm  all  open  and  above 
board,  I  am — and  always  have  been." 

"Leave  him.    And  your  other  two  friends?" 

"There's  Tiger.  He's  a  labouring  man  as  I've  brought 
up  and  made,  you  might  say.  Rare  stuff  he's  built  of. 
He  understands.  There's  no  call  to  fear  for  the  world 
if  it  was  full  of  the  likes  of  him.  He  looks  after  me  up 
to  Brown's  House.  He  keeps  clothes  on  my  back  now. 
I  should  have  been  a  good  friend  to  him  and  paid  him  a 
thousandfold,  if  he'd  let  me.  But  that's  all  one  now. 
Three  friends,  you  say?  You'm  but  a  frosty  pattern 
of  man  if  that's  good  measure  to  you.  Why,  poor  chap, 
I  had  five  hundred  of  'em  once !  Five  hundred,  I  'm 
sure  'twas.  Not  a  door  but  hid  a  friend  once — and  now 
— But  what  do  I  care?  Let  me  be  hungry — let  me  be 
forgot.  I've  given  all — all  I  had  to  give — and  if  there's 
none  left  who  want  the  brave  pleasure  of  giving  to  me, 
I  can  go  without.  I  ban 't  very  vexed  about  it  when  I  'm 
sober.  I'm  a  wise  old  man  in  my  way.  People  must 
die,  and  them  I've  helped  be  mostly  gone.  Us  have  got 
to  be  thankful  for  very  small  mercies  in  sight  of 
seventy. ' ' 

The  other  looked  at  his  great  round  back  and  bibulous 
face. 

"Yes,   you're   wise   yet.      There's   a   good   streak   of 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  407 

wisdom  in  taking  flowers  to  a  child.  I  never  did 
that." 

Philip  was  elated. 

''There's  sense  in  me,  I  tell  you;  and  if  they'd  only 
go  the  right  way  about  it,  the  people  would  find  it  out. 
But  they'm  all  too  busy  about  their  own  affairs.  My 
work's  done — or  nearly.  There's  nothing  calling  to  do 
but  to  save  that  child  against  its  father.  I've  got  my 
ideas;  but  'tis  a  secret  yet.  Don't  you  name  it  to  no- 
body." 

He  nodded  at  his  thoughts,  while  the  other  took  out 
a  pipe  and  loaded  it. 

"Here's  your  shilling;  now  I  must  get  on  my  way," 
declared  Philip. 

' '  Have  you  got  plenty  of  money  ?  I  don 't  want  it  un- 
less you  can  spare  it,  though  I  confess  it  would  be  useful. 
I  must  get  to  Plymouth  to-night." 

"Take  it,  man.  I've  got  money.  He  can't  rob  me 
of  that.  'Twasn't  his  earning,  mind  you.  'Twas  gathered 
by  me  and  father  afore  me,  long  before  his  shadow  made 
my  world  wintry." 

"Well,  well.  Carry  your  bluebells  to  the  child  and 
hear  him  thank  you.  Ovid  says  'The  best  weapon's  an 
undaunted  heart. '  You  've  got  that.  Life  is  all  a  search, 
master,  and  very  few  find  anything  in  the  rubbish  heap 
after  they've  picked  it  over.  But  sometimes,  while  you 
are  seeking  one  thing,  you'll  come  across  what's  better, 
like  a  man  shooting  snipe  and  flushing  a  cock.  We'll 
be  hopeful  still.  Good-bye.  I'm  glad  to  have  met  you, 
and  I  thank  you  heartily  for  your  shilling. ' ' 

Philip  shook  his  hand. 

"If  you  like  to  drop  into  Brown's  House  up  over, 
you  '11  be  welcome, ' '  he  declared. 

And  then  he  went  his  way. 

The  educated  wastrel  looked  after  him. 

"Turned  on  the  wheel  of  the  world,  and  not  turned 
true";  he  thought;  "and  if  that  wheel  can't  turn  us 
true,  it  breaks  us. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XII 

At  the  time  of  hay  harvest  Philip  broke  his  long  silence 
and  accosted  Martin.  Indeed,  he  sought  him.  At  first 
the  younger  supposed  this  renewal  of  friendship  but 
an  accident,  prompted  by  Philip's  momentary  need;  but 
time  seemed  to  show  the  elder  was  changing.  Not  until 
long  afterwards  did  the  reason  for  his  renewed  amity 
appear. 

Martin,  and  the  rest,  were  hard  at  work  in  a  forenoon 
of  August  upon  the  crofts  of  Hartland.  The  hay  fell  in 
deep  swathes  where  Tiger  rode  a  machine  and  drove  two 
horses.  He  was  perched  on  a  shell  of  iron  above  the 
wheels,  and  beneath  him  knives  played  and  purred,  glit- 
tering in  the  sweet  heart  of  the  crop.  Here  the  mixed 
pasture  of  clover  and  sorrel  and  many  grasses  fell  and 
stretched  withering  to  silver  green  upon  the  verdant, 
close-shorn  face  of  the  meadow.  Behind  the  grass-cutter 
there  came  men  with  rakes ;  and  in  the  next  field  Martin 
and  some  others,  hired  for  the  special  work,  were  turning 
and  shaking  out  the  drying  hay  with  forks.  The  sun 
smiled  upon  the  proceedings;  but  before  nightfall  the 
fallen  grass  would  all  be  piled  in  little  mounds  upon  the 
bosoms  of  the  fields,  to  protect  it  against  any  change  of 
weather. 

A  battered  hat,  a  red  face,  and  a  short  stubble  of  white 
beard  suddenly  rose  nigh  Martin  where  he  worked.  He 
had  seen  the  familiar  bent  figure  of  Philip  half  a  mile 
off  on  the  hill  some  time  before,  and  now  the  old  man 
lifted  himself  from  behind  a  wall  on  the  side  of  the 
field. 

Martin  was  working  fifty  yards  off  and  did  not  intend 
to  take  any  notice.  But  presently,  to  his  surprise,  he 
found  himself  called. 

408 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  409 

"Come  hither,  my  son!"  shouted  Ouldsbroom,  as 
though  nothing  but  friendship  dwelt  between  them. 

Martin  flung  down  his  fork  and  ran  to  the  wall. 

"Good  morning,  father.  I'm  so  very  glad  you  called 
to  me.  Won't  you  step  through  the  gate  and  sit  down 
and  rest  for  a  bit  out  of  the  sun  ? ' ' 

"Rest?  No.  Why  for  should  I  rest?  Have  'e  got  a 
bit  of  work  for  me,  Martin  ?  That's  what  I  want.  Plenty 
of  time  for  resting  when  the  sun's  down.  To  be  plain 
with  you,  along  of  this  thirsty  weather,  I've  used  up  my 
money  a  bit  too  soon.  I  be  here  to  earn  five  shillings 
tossing  hay.  I  can  do  it  as  well  as  them  chaps.  Then, 
having  come  by  the  money  honestly,  I  can  be  off  and  get 
drunk  in  good  company  with  an  easy  conscience." 

The  younger  was  very  patient.  He  turned  down  his 
sleeves,  wiped  his  face  and  got  over  the  wall. 

"Let  us  talk,"  he  said.  "I'm  thankful  that  you  could 
find  it  in  you  to  come  to  me.  Never  stint  yourself  or 
borrow  money,  father.  Why  should  you  borrow  it? 
Every  penny  is  yours,  and  I'm  making  money  for  you 
faster  and  faster.  You  mustn't  think  I  touch  it.  I 
keep  mine  and  yours  quite  separate.  Would  you  like 
to  talk  about  it — or  something  else  ? ' ' 

"Anything  else — anything  else  on  God's  earth  but 
that.  I  want  to  be  friends  with  you  again.  I'm  getting 
old  at  last — slowly  but  surely.  I  don't  want  to  go  back 
an  hour  into  what's  gone.  Let  all  that  sleep.  But  I 
want  to  be  friends  for  the  future.  I  want  to  be  free  of 
Hartland." 

' '  Well  you  know  the  master  is  free  of  his  own. ' ' 

"Not  when  you're  there.  For  two  years  I've  hated 
you  worse  than  hunger  or  thirst  or  pain.  And  now  I  've 
forgiven  you.  Hate  wears  itself  out.  I  '11  make  a  bargain 
with  you,  and  if  you  let  me  see  my  grandchild  when  I 
please,  I  '11  be  friends  and  say  no  more  against  you.  Not 
alone  will  I  see  him,  if  you  can't  trust  me ;  but  when  you 
are  by,  or  when  his  mother  is  by. ' ' 

"Yes,  father.  I  agree  to  that.  I'm  told  that  Wesley 
is  very  fond  of  you  and  will  always  go  to  you. ' ' 

"Why  not?    Don't  he  know  I'm  his  grandfather?" 


410  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

"I'm  thankful  for  this — thankful  above  measure.  I 
must  get  back  to  work  now.  There's  a  lot  to  do.  'Tis 
hard  nowadays  to  find  men  who  know  how  to  work. 
I've  turned  off  two  haymakers  because  thej  only  played 
at  work.  Here's  half  a  sovereign.  Will  you  come  and 
have  a  bit  of  food  with  us  under  the  hedge  after  noon  1 ' ' 

He  took  a  ten-shilling  piece  from  a  little  purse  and 
handed  it  to  Philip. 

"No,  I'll  go  in  and  have  a  bite  with  Minnie  and  the 
boy  presently.  But  I  thank  you  for  asking  me.  I'm 
glad  you  did  so.  Here !  Let  me  have  the  fork  a  minute. 
I'll  show  'em!" 

He  came  through  a  gate  into  the  field,  took  off  his  coat 
and  began  to  turn  hay.  Tiger,  from  his  perch  not  far  off, 
stared  and  laughed.  Then  he  stopped  his  horses  and 
spoke  to  the  man,  Will  Eogers,  who  was  close  by. 

"A  good  day's  work  all  round  by  the  look  of  it,"  he 
said.  "If  that  old  wonder  ban't  come  down  to  pitch 
hay !    And  they've  made  it  up,  seemingly." 

"Who  would  ever  have  thought  of  that  happening?" 

"Well,  I  can't  say  I'm  so  much  surprised  as  some 
might  be.  I  see  most  of  Mr.  Ouldsbroom  now,  and  I've 
marked  a  weakening  off  of  his  anger  for  a  good  bit.  He's 
got  something  hid,  though.  He  gets  that  sly  and  deep 
sometimes.  Nods  and  winks  very  wisely  to  himself  and 
be  full  of  secret  plans.  He's  past  mischief  now — dear 
old  blid.  I  ban't  feared  that  he'll  do  any  harm  now. 
'Tis  for  the  sake  of  the  child  that  he's  made  it  up,  with- 
out a  doubt.  Strange  to  see  'em  together  again.  'Tis 
the  difference  between  sitting  on  the  green  grass  and  a 
stone-heap  between  them  two  men.  Leastways,  it  used  so 
to  be  when  farmer  was  here." 

But  Rogers  would  not  allow  this. 

"Things  have  changed.  Mister  Martin's  frosty,  but 
you  can  depend  upon  him.  He'll  have  the  last  ounce, 
but  he'll  return  you  a  pennyweight  that's  over.  As  we 
get  up  in  years,  we  find  that  peace  of  mind  depends  on 
working  with  them  that  are  trustworthy  and  won't  fool 
us  at  any  point.  I  dare  say  'tis  small  in  me  to  feel  so; 
but  us  can't  stand  care  so  light-hearted  as  time  goes  by. 


THE    THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  411 

He  was  never  the  same  to  me  as  to  you,  remember.  Us 
turn  to  a  certainty  in  middle  age,  and  don't  welcome 
adventure  and  ups  and  downs  like  the  boys  do." 

Tiger  admitted  this. 

"Phil  have  tried  me  a  thought  these  last  two  years, 
and  I  don 't  mind  confessing  it.  I  care  for  him  more  than 
ever  I  cared  for  him.  I'd  do  anything  that  a  mortal 
could  do  for  him;  but  for  a  humble  married  man  like 
me,  who  have  found  religion — for  me  to  live  with  that 
amazing  old  whirlwind  so  much  as  I  do,  and  feel  for 
the  most  part  powerless  as  the  leaf  in  the  river  afore  him 
— it  have  its  hard  side,  Will. ' ' 

* '  It  can 't  last  so  very  much  longer. ' ' 

"No,  and  that's  the  hardest  side  of  all.  The  thing 
must  end,  and  when  I  think  of  it  ended,  I  don't  know 
how  to " 

A  shout  stopped  him. 

* '  Is  there  anything  the  matter  ?  Why  are  you  standing 
still.  Tiger?" 

The  machine  went  on  again. 

Philip  had  soon  done  with  the  hayfork.  He  returned 
it  to  Martin  and  went  off  down  to  Postbridge.  The  action 
seemed  pregnant  and  indicative  of  the  changed  relations. 
It  was  long  since  he  had  been  at  the  hamlet,  and  not  a 
few  of  the  old  people  there  hailed  him  as  one  risen  from 
the  dead. 

* '  'Tis  Mr.  Ouldsbroom,  surely ! ' '  cried  Peter  Culme, 
who  now  had  ceased  from  his  labours  and,  grown  to  be 
a  very  ancient  man,  drowsed  away  his  end  of  days  beside 
the  river. 

"So  it  is  then,  and  I'm  glad  to  see  you're  middling 
clever,  too.  But  you  be — what? — a  hundred  year  old, 
Peter,  by  the  look  of  you. ' ' 

"Eighty-one,  mister.  You've  heard  tell  that  Charlie 
Coombes  have  gone  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  yes.  And  Gregory  Twigg  be  so  full  of  water 
that  they  can't  save  him,  I'm  told.  I  must  try  and  get 
up  over  to  see  him  this  afternoon.  No  doubt  my  son 
will  lend  me  a  hoss.  Can't  ax  you  to  drink,  Peter,  for 
this  place  still  be  all  behind  the  age  and  haven't  no 


412  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

licensed  house  from  one  end  to  t  'other.  But  if  you  travel 
over  to  '  Warren  House '  a  bit  later,  I  shall  be  very  pleased 
to  stand  treat  for  the  sake  of  the  old  days. ' ' 

Peter  thanked  him  and  shook  his  head.  Then  Philip 
went  on  to  the  shop  of  Saul  Hext  and  sat  down  there 
in  the  familiar  place. 

''Let  me  have  a  drop  out  of  your  private  bottle,"  he 
said.  "Don't  grudge  it.  I've  got  ten  bob  in  my  pocket, 
and  I  'm  going  to  spend  every  blessed  penny  of  it  in  your 
shop  afore  I  go. " 

This  promise  made  Saul  generous.  He  brought  out  a 
bottle  of  whisky  three  parts  full,  and  Philip  began  to 
drink. 

"Four  fingers,"  he  said;  "then  four  more  on  top  of 
that,  and  I  shall  feel  a  bit  better.  I've  been  working 
in  the  hay  for  my  son.  Did  a  day 's  work  in  half  an  hour, 
I  assure  you !  At  least,  what  the  young  men  call  a  day 's 
work  now.  The  way  we  worked  is  forgot  by  this 
slack- twisted  generation.  Have  a  drink  along  of  me, 
Saul?" 

Suddenly  Philip  felt  in  his  pocket  and  drew  out  the 
half-sovereign. 

"Here,  you'd  best  to  lay  hold  of  this  afore  I  forget 
it.  I'll  have  the  toys  presently.  They'm  for  my  grand- 
child. I  'm  to  go  up  over  to  have  a  bite  with  Minnie.  I  'm 
free  of  the  house,  you  must  know.  I've  forgived  my 
son. ' ' 

He  laughed  to  himself. 

"Little  they  guess;  little  they  guess.  But  I'm  that 
crafty!" 

He  broke  off  and  looked  at  Hext  suspiciously. 

* '  Be  you  straight  and  above  board  ?    Can  I  trust  you  ? ' ' 

"I  should  hope  so,  Mr.  Ouldsbroom,"  answered  Saul. 

But  the  other  shook  his  head. 

"Some  day — some  day.  You'll  hear  it  when  the  time 
comes.  You'll  be  the  first  to  say  'Well  done,  Phil!' 
But  I'm  a  bit  too  artful  to  name  it  yet.  I  wouldn't  even 
tell  Tiger." 

He  drank  and  began  to  grow  bellicose.  Mr.  Hext  be- 
came anxious  and  wished  the  old  man  away. 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  413 

* '  Wouldn  't  even  tell  Tiger — not  even  Tiger.  So  if  you 
think  I'd  tell  you,  you  be  very  much  mistaken.  Tiger's 
worth  ten  of  you.  I  say  he's  worth  ten  of  you,  Saul 
Hext !  And  though  he  crept  to  church  at  my  son 's  com- 
mand—  'tis  humbug  and  nonsense,  and  if  you  think  I 
don't  see  through  it — why,  there's  nothing  I  don't  see — 
nothing  I  don't  see.  I  tell  you  there's  nothing  I  don't 
see,  Saul  Hext.  I'm  like  the  old  hawk  aloft.  The  crea- 
tures crawling  about  below  may  not  mark  him,  but  he 
sees  them,  and  what  they  be  good  for — and  then — swoop ! 
^ — he 's  on  'em ! ' ' 

"I  think  you'd  best  to  come  and  buy  what  you  want 
now,"  suggested  Saul.  "I  shouldn't  drink  no  more  just 
at  present,  if  I  was  you. ' ' 

Philip  laughed  and  thumped  the  table. 

"You  funny  dog,"  he  cried.  "Never  heard  a  better 
joke.  But  all  the  same,  if  you  was  me — I  say  if  you 
was  me,  you  white-faced  fellow,  you'd  drain  the  bottle — 
same  as  I  be  going  to  do  now ! ' ' 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word. 

"Now  I  want  some  toys  for  my  brave  boy  up  the  hill," 
he  said.  He  began  to  fumble  for  his  money,  and  Hext 
reminded  him  that  he  had  already  found  it. 

"Then  why  don't  you  give  me  my  toys?  Why  for 
don 't  you  give  me  my  boy 's  toys  ?  I  want  the  toys.  When 
I  used  to  come  for  toys  for  Martin,  they  wasn  't  withheld 
from  me.    I  say  they  wasn't  withheld. . .  " 

Hext  presently  tied  up  a  bundle  of  the  things  that 
Philip  chose;  but  the  old  man  had  sense  left  to  know 
that  he  could  not  get  to  Hartland  at  present. 

"You  hang  on  to  them  things  till  afternoon,"  he  said. 
"I  be  going  across  the  road  to  sit  in  thicky  broken  house 
and  have  a  pipe  and  think  over  one  or  two  deep  schemes 
— one  or  two  deep  schemes  as  I  be  turning  over,  Saul 
Hext.    I'll  come  back  presently." 

He  lurched  across  to  where  a  ruin  stood  beside  Dart, 
and  there,  having  sat  blinking  in  the  sun  for  a  while,  he 
went  into  the  shade.  He  took  off  his  coat,  folded  it  up 
with  meticulous  care,  and  put  it  on  a  stone — one  of  the 
ancient  tin  moulds  of  mediaeval  miners,  cut  into  this 


414  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

granite  block  when  Elizabeth  reigned.     Then  he  laid  his 
head  down  upon  it  and  soon  slept. 

It  was  evening  before  he  woke  and  came  back  into 
life  again.  His  nebulous  mind  slowly  cleared,  and  he 
remembered  where  he  was  and  what  had  brought  him 
hither.  He  rose,  shook  himself  and  went  for  the  parcel 
of  toys.  Then  he  tramped  the  familiar  path  to  Hartland 
and  found  Martin,  Minnie,  and  the  baby  at  tea. 

Wesley,  a  sturdy  brown  boy  in  whom  his  parents  met, 
loved  Philip  well  and  was  soon  in  his  arms.  Presently 
they  sat  on  the  kitchen  floor  together  with  the  toys. 

A  new  era  seemed  to  lave  opened,  and  the  mother's 
heart  was  full  of  thankfulness.  That  the  old  man  could 
come  again  to  Hartland  while  Martin  was  also  there, 
promised  possibilities  of  peace. 

Philip  was  cheerful  now;  he  ate  a  little  and  drank  a 
great  deal  of  tea.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he 
never  looked  back.  The  past  entered  not  at  all  into  his 
conversation,  and  he  spoke  as  though  he  and  Martin  were 
on  the  best  of  terms. 

Young  Ouldsbroom  was  content  to  take  it  so.  He 
avoided  all  subjects  that  could  bring  a  shadow  to  the 
other's  mind,  and  strove  to  speak  with  hope  and  cheerful- 
ness. •  He  had  not  seen  Philip  at  these  close  quarters  for 
more  than  two  years,  and  was  startled  to  mark  the 
changes  in  him.  But  the  old  man  seemed  happy  enough 
and  even  spoke  of  business.  They  talked  vaguely,  and 
presently  a  shout  from  the  boy  took  Philip  back  to  the 
floor.  Here  he  was  at  home ;  here  he  was  very  thoroughly 
understood.  The  brown  eyes  of  the  little  child  looked 
into  his  blue  ones  and  found  another  child  there,  ready 
and  willing  to  do  his  pleasure  and  share  his  joy. 

Philip  relapsed  into  gloom  when  Wesley  went  to  bed. 
He  became  silent  and  declared  himself  very  weary.  Mar- 
tin offered  to  see  him  home ;  Minnie  hinted  that  she  would 
make  up  a  bed  for  him  if  he  desired  it;  but  he  declined 
both  suggestions. 

He  called  for  Tiger;  and  Tiger  it  was  who  presently 
brought  him  to  Brown's  House  through  the  dewy  night. 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  415 

The  young  man  much  rejoiced  at  such  a  turn  of  affairs ; 
but  Philip's  mood  had  changed.  His  head  ached,  and  he 
grumbled  at  the  length  of  the  way. 

"She  offered  to  make  up  a  bed  for  me;  but  he  said 
nought.  If  he'd  but  so  much  as  looked  the  same  offer, 
without  a  word,  I'd  have  agreed  to  bide.  But  he  didn't 
want  it  to  be  so.  There's  only  one  in  Postbridge  as  will 
ever  make  up  a  bed  for  me,  Tiger — and  that 's  sexton. ' ' 

He  would  not  be  cheered,  and  his  friend  presently  got 
him  home  and  helped  him  to  bed.  He  fell  asleep  in- 
stantly, and  Tiger,  before  he  shut  the  door  and  departed, 
set  a  loaf  and  some  butter  on  the  table,  laid  a  fire,  filled  a 
kettle  with  water,  put  some  tea  in  the  teapot  and  made 
the  kitchen  as  tidy  as  he  Imew  how. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Now  Philip  Ouldsbroom  entered  upon  the  twilight  of 
his  age,  and  only  a  last  ambition  held  him  much  to  life. 

There  came  to  him  a  sort  of  longing  to  be  self-conscious 
no  more,  to  escape  the  curse  of  memory,  to  awake  daily, 
as  the  beast,  and  go  his  way  unlinked  by  one  torturing 
thought  to  yesterday,  by  one  cruel  fear  with  to-morrow. 
In  a  clear  hour  he  calculated  the  gains  and  losses,  and 
believed  that  to  be  a  fox  or  a  coney  would  advance  his 
welfare.  There  was  not  much  he  wanted  to  remember. 
Unity  and  Barbara  and  what  they  meant;  Tiger  and  his 
lifelong  devotion — that  was  all.  He  approached  the 
coveted  annihilation  often  enough  through  drink,  and  re- 
turned to  consciousness  with  less  and  less  of  gratitude. 

The  renewed  amenities  waned  slowly,  for  Philip  always 
felt  discomfort  with  Martin,  and  enjoyed  better  to  be 
at  Hartland  when  he  was  not  by.  He  spoke  less  bitterly 
against  him,  but  his  presence  invariably  hurt  him,  and 
he  avoided  it.  His  secret  hope  centred  in  "Wesley,  and 
he  endured  what  was  not  little  to  him  on  the  child's  ac- 
count. Now,  with  reason  staggering,  he  had  matured  a 
secret  scheme  for  the  boy's  welfare.  The  time  was  near 
when  he  designed  to  put  this  idea  into  practice;  but 
though  in  all  its  fantastic  unreality  it  dwelt  full-fledged 
within  his  head,  none  guessed  that  he  dreamed  of  any 
such  thing.  Cunningly  he  concealed  it,  because  lie  knew 
that  to  hint  of  the  plan  was  to  be  frustrated. 

Another  winter  had  passed,  and  on  the  day  when  fish- 
ing began,  there  came  Tiger  to  make  whole  holiday  with 
his  master. 

416 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  417 

A  great  storm  had  raged  on  the  first  night  of  March. 
A  red,  humpbacked  moon  went  down  over  the  Moor  edge 
and  some  keen,  clear  hours  followed.  The  wind  fresh- 
ened hourly  and,  after  midnight,  veered  south  of  west 
and  blew  a  whole  gale.  The  homesteads  shook  from  the 
thrust  of  it,  a  dozen  trees  fell  at  Postbridge.  Torrents 
from  a  black  sky  heralded  dawn  and  morning  came  on 
a  shouting  wind  under  grey  sheets  of  rain.  Already 
floods  thundered  to  the  valley  at  the  first  return  of  light ; 
but  Tiger  knew  Philip  too  well  to  break  the  appointment. 

The  sky  blew  clear  by  seven  o'clock,  and  before  eight 
he  was  off  to  the  head-waters  of  South  Teign,  there  to 
meet  the  old  man.  He  carried  ample  food  provided  by 
Minnie,  together  with  his  own  rod  and  creel. 

They  fished  with  natural  bait,  and  Tiger  marked  that 
Philip  had  lost  his  cunning.  His  line  fell  feebly  and 
was  always  running  foul  of  rocks  and  banks.  He  began 
cheerfully,  but  presently  relapsed  into  impatience  and 
disappointment.  He  emptied  his  flask  long  before  the 
time  had  come  for  food,  and  soon  afterwards  his  good 
humour  departed.  He  threw  down  his  rod,  cursed  the 
fish,  and  bade  Tiger  come  and  sit  beside  him  in  a  shel- 
tered nook  and  smoke. 

"Let  the  water  go  down  a  bit,"  he  said;  "  'twill  run 
finer  in  an  hour  or  so.  Us '11  sit  and  have  a  tell  out  o' 
this  raging  wind.  You  can't  keep  the  line  in  the  river 
for  it." 

They  found  an  overhanging  stone  by  streamside  and 
talked  together.    The  younger  had  an  item  of  news. 

"You'll  be  glad  to  know  that  chap  as  fired  our  rick, 
back-along  before  Christmas,  have  been  found  over  to 
Chagford.  He  was  catched  stealing  Perrott's  poultry, 
and  he  confessed  to  a  few  other  crimes.  He  knowed  all 
about  these  parts  and  said  the  Hartland  rick  was  an  acci- 
dent along  of  knocking  out  his  pipe  there  afore  he  started 
off  from  it." 

"I  suppose  Martin  won't  say  that  'twas  his  father  done 
it  any  more  now,  then,"  answered  Philip  moodily. 

' '  Don 't  you  tell  that  or  think  that,  master.  He  never, 
never There,  whatever  can  you  be  about  to  get  such 

27 


418  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

wicked  thoughts  in  your  mind — you,  as  never  would  hear 
or  speak  a  word  against  any  mortal  man  or  woman  in  the 
old  days?  When  you  was  more  in  the  world,  you  took 
bigger  ideas.  And  I  wish  you  was  back  in  it  again  for 
your  own  peace." 

"I've  done  with  the  world — very  near;  and  the  world 
have  done  with  me.  The  world  knows  its  own.  It  don't 
know  me  no  more.  It  don 't  want  my  sort  now.  My  son 's 
the  new  pattern  that  the  world  axes  for  now. ' ' 

Tiger  laughed  at  a  recollection. 

"Mister  Martin's  a  rum  un  in  some  ways.  You  mind 
that  big  barn  of  Webber 's  as  he  got  a  mortgage  over  three 
year  back?  Well,  now  Webber's  in  a  tight  place  for  a 
minute  and  he  haven't  been  able  to  pay  a  halfpenny  for 
two  year,  and  Martin's  foreclosed,  and  Webber's  going 
bankrupt.  Well,  and  what  d'you  think?  Martin  means 
to  hand  the  barn  over  to  the  Order  of  Rechabites  and 
they  be  going  to  have  a  tent  there ! ' ' 

"Water-drinkers  and  Little  Baptists — 'tis  a  choking 
air  for  that  poor  child  to  be  fetched  up  in.  But  we  shall 
see  as  to  him.  Wesley  have  got  a  clean-minded  grand- 
father yet. ' ' 

' '  And  he  '11  have  a  brother  or  sister  afore  long. ' ' 

Philip  pursued  his  own  thoughts  awhile ;  then  he  broke 
out  into  a  storm  of  invective  against  religion.  Tiger 
strove  to  still  him. 

"You  mustn't  say  these  things.  What's  the  good  of 
'em  and  what's  the  sense?  Live  and  let  live  did  use 
to  be  your  motto.  And  none  ever  had  a  better.  I  can't 
go  all  the  way  with  you  like  I  used  to  do,  Phil,  my  old 
dear,  because  I  've  larned  a  bit  since  them  days.  There 's 
a  good  side  and  a  bad  side  to  all  things.  And  there's  a 
good  side  to  church-going.  I  tell  you  'tis  a  good  thing 
for  a  man  like  me.  There's  wonnerful  matters  in  the 
Book — more  wonnerful  matters  than  you've  read  out 
of  it  yet.  And  I  do  wish,  for  a  change  from  Job, 
you'd  let  me  read  out  a  bit  about  one  or  two  other 
heroes. ' ' 

"Never!"  cried  Philip.  "What  was  good  enough  for 
Barbara  be  good  enough  for  me.     And  you  mind  that 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  419 

when  I  go  under,  Martin  don't  have  his  way.  I'll  be 
buried  same  as  Barbara — or,  if  not  that,  then  like  a  dog. 
But  no  trash  and  lies  and  twaddle,  no  'eternal  life,'  or 
any  of  that  mess  over  me." 

' '  The  dead  live  again,  however, ' '  asserted  Tiger.  ' '  I  've 
got  to  a  pitch  now  when  I'm  bound  to  believe  that  the 
dead  live  again." 

' '  They  do — in  worms. ' ' 

"Us  have  soaring  souls,  master." 

' '  No  more  of  that !  Dust  is  dust,  and  God  knows  my 
load  of  it  have  got  heavy  to  bear  of  late.  But  one  more 
bit  of  serious  work — but  one  more — and  I  shall  be  glad 
enough  to  be  done.  Life's  no  great  loss  to  me  now, 
Tiger.  I've  lost  worse  than  that  in  my  time.  I've  lost 
pretty  well  everything  worth  living  for — but  you.  You'll 
see  me  out ;  you  '11  close  my  eyes.  You  're  the  only  friend 
as  I've  got  left — you  and  my  grandson.  He's  all  right. 
My  duty — what's  left  of  it — lies  there.  And  then — why, 
I  tell  you  that  death  may  be  the  only  prize  in  a  life  of 
blanks ;  and  'twill  come  as  a  prize  to  me  afore  very  long. 
I  thought  different  once,  though — how  different  I 
thought  once  ! ' ' 

''And  must  again.  You'm  good  for  a  lot  of  usefulness 
and  fun  yet. ' ' 

"I  shall  hand  the  child  on  as  a  legacy  to  you. 
But  that's  all  a  secret  yet.  You'll  see — come  pres- 
ently. I'm  full  of  fight— full  of  fight  till  that's  off  my 
mind." 

Tiger  paid  no  heed.  He  had  recollected  another  item 
of  news. 

"Greg's  going,"  he  said.  "Can't  last  another  week, 
they  say.  I  was  past  there  two  days  ago  and  'twas 
mentioned  in  the  bar  that  Mr.  Twigg  had  begun 
to  take  leave  of  his  friends.  He's  quite  happy.  He 
invited  old  Peter  Culme  and  a  few  others  to  come  and 
see  a  good  man  die  presently;  and  Peter  hopes  to  be 
able  to  do  so,  if  he's  well  enough,  and  can  get  a  lift  up 
the  hill." 

Philip  looked  about  him  and  considered. 

"Let's  see,"  he  said.     "If  us  was  to  travel  up  over 


420  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Hurston  Ridge,  us  could  reach  to  'Warren  House'  at 
my  gait  in  three  parts  of  an  hour.  It  han't  above  two 
miles  from  here,  I  reckon." 

"Would  you  like  to  do  it?" 

"Yes,  I  would.  I'm  dry  as  a  kiln.  'Tis  the  nearest 
drink  from  this  place.  And  I've  no  objection  to  taking 
leave  of  the  man.  We've  knowed  each  other  for  fifty 
year  and  more,  and  I've  often  had  a  good  laugh  at 
him." 

"Us '11  take  down  our  rods  then  and  fish  another 
time." 

Philip  agreed. 

"I'm  a  bit  rusty  after  the  winter.  I  han't  getting 
out  my  line  very  clever  to-day." 

They  climbed  out  of  the  valley  presently,  and  in  an 
hour  reached  Furnum  Regis,  on  the  boundaries  of  the 
Forest's  eastern  quarter.  From  this  ancient  place 
of  tin-smelting  the  distance  to  Mr.  Twigg's  public- 
house  was  trifling,  and  after  quenching  his  thirst 
and  resting  awhile,  Philip  sent  a  message  to  the  sick 
man. 

"Tell  him  that  I've  come  up  from  the  river  special 
for  to  see  him,"  he  said.  "Because  I  hear  he's  soon 
like  to  be  off,  and  I  should  wish  to  take  my  farewell  afore 
'tis  too  late." 

Gregory  invited  the  other  to  his  couch,  and  Philip  went 
up,  but  Tiger  remained  in  the  bar. 

A  faithful  follower  of  the  publican  was  sitting  beside 
him  while  he  improved  the  fleeting  hours.  Mr.  Twigg 
had  nearly  reached  his  tether,  but  his  mind  was  clear 
and  his  body  at  rest.  There  seemed  to  be  a  shadow  of 
unfamiliar  humility  in  his  reflections,  and  Philip  was 
quick  to  mark  it. 

"Blessed  if  you  han't  singing  small  for  once, 
Greg!" 

' '  We  must  all  sing  small  when  we  get  to  the  waters  of 
Jordan,  neighbour.  But  small  though  we  may  sing,  the 
Everlasting  ear  will  hear,  and  be  very  quick  to  help  us 
through  the  river.  I  'm  face  to  face  with  it  now.  I  'm  on 
the  bank,  but  I  ain  't  shivering.    I  'm  quite  ready  for  the 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  421 

plunge,  and  I  know  Whose  holy  Hand  will  be  under  my 
chin  to  help  me  across. ' ' 

** Life's  treated  you  pretty  well,  taking  it  all  round," 
said  Philip.  "It's  gived  you  some  good  childer, 
above  all  else,  and  a  cast-iron  conceit  of  yourself 
that  be  worth  everything  for  getting  a  man  on  in  the 
world. ' ' 

"I  wouldn't  say  that.  I  was  blessed  with  rare  intel- 
lects and  took  care  to  use  them.  But  I  never  went  be- 
yond a  fair  and  reasonable  self-esteem.  At  least  I  hope 
not.  I've  had  my  trials  too — dark  and  deep,  I  assure- 
you.  The  larger  you  stake  in  the  world,  the  larger  your 
troubles;  and  if  you  play  a  big  game,  as  I  have,  and 
keep  in  the  eye  of  God  and  man,  same  as  what  I've 
done  for  more  than  half  a  century,  be  sure  there's 
many  have  tried  to  pull  you  down,  and  the  Lord  have 
let  the  devil  tempt  you  and  torment  you  too.  You,  who 
know  such  a  lot  about  the  Book  of  Job — surely  you  can 
understand  that?" 

"I  don't  understand,"  answered  Ouldsbroom,  ''May 
I  be  plagued,  worse  than  I  have  been,  if  I  understand 
your  precious  God  and  His  ways.  Look  at  me.  Every- 
thing took — one  after  another — everything  took  but  my 
pluck  and  will  to  go  on  against  all  odds.  And  what  have 
I  done  to  deserve  such  wrongs'?" 

''They'm  only  wrongs  because  your  eyes  be  blinded 
to  the  truths  of  'em.  And  even  if  your  case  was  as 
dark  as  you  fancy  it  is,  what's  that  but  the  unknown 
way  of  the  Almighty?  God's  got  a  nasty  trick  of 
coming  back  upon  us,  like  a  thunderstorm.  He'll 
strike  and  you'll  go  on  your  knees  and  suffer  and 
moan;  and  then  you'll  think  'tis  over  and  lift  up  and 
try  to  settle  down  once  more  and  count  the  cost  and 
make  the  best  of  it.  But,  while  you'm  just  creep- 
ing out  cautiously  and  hoping  for  better  things,  He's 
on  the  watch  and  strikes  again,  perhaps,  and  takes  all 
that's  left." 

''The  very  image  of  His  ways!"  cried  Philip.  "And 
be  that  a  God  to  worship  ? ' ' 

"In  your  ignorance  you  might   think  He  wasn't," 


422  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

answered  Mr.  Twigg,  "but  the  Lord  of  Light  haven't 
any  use  for  our  little,  paltry  ideas  of  what  be  sport- 
ing and  what  be  not.  He  knows  the  physic  that  every 
sick  soul  stands  in  need  of,  and  He  sends  the  physic. 
He  don't  mess  about  and  talk  to  hide  His  ignorance, 
and  try  you  a  bottle  of  the  wrong  stuff  and  then 
pass  it  off  and  pretend  'twas  the  right  one — like  a 
young  doctor  I've  suffered  from  of  late,  who  shall  be 
nameless.  He  understands  every  case  and  sends  the 
right  remedy,  whether  'tis  nice  or  nasty,  easy  or  harsh. 
I've  had  many  a  pill  and  potion  from  the  Surgery 
of  Grace,  Philip  Ouldsbroom ;  and  I  've  let  'em  all  down 
without  a  murmur.  We've  got  to  take  'em,  whether 
we  want  to  or  not;  and  'tis  a  man's  part  to  swallow 
'em  in  a  manly  spirit.  But  you,  you're  for  ever  screaming 
and  kicking,  like  a  naughty  child  as  have  to  be  forced. ' ' 

* '  And  will  to  the  end !  Your  God 's  too  hard,  Gregory, 
and  if  I  believed  in  Him,  I'd  hate,  but  I'd  not  love. 
And  we'll  see  who's  right  in  the  long  run.  You'll  know 
first." 

"And  it  ban't  likely  that  you  will  be  long  behind  me, 
Philip.  To  my  eye  there's  a  look  about  you  that  says 
the  goal  is  in  sight.  I  hope  as  we  shall  meet  again — 
some  day.  No  doubt  there's  a  lot  for  us  both  to  learn 
yet.  Eternity  won't  be  spent  in  idleness.  No  unem- 
ployed there. ' ' 

"Don't  you  think  I'm  going  this  longful  time,"  said 
the  other.  He  had  passed  from  his  morning  despondency 
into  a  spirit  of  hope. 

' '  My  work 's  far  short  of  finished  yet,  though  it  pleases 
the  people  to  think  it  is.  I've  got  ten  years  more  to  go, 
in  my  opinion,  and  plenty  to  do  with  them.  There's 
something  very  important  calling  for  my  hand  and  head 
— the  management  of  an  immortal  soul,  in  fact.  At 
least,  if  you  're  right,  and  we  shall  all  live  for  ever.  And 
my  Tiger  believes  that  now." 

"I  hope  'tis  your  own  soul  you  speak  of.  The  mills 
of  God  grind  slow,  but  they  miss  nought.  If  you  are 
to  be  caught  up  at  the  eleventh  hour,  Phil,  I  should  go 
the  happier  to  my  own  rest.     I  admit  that.     The  Light 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  423 

have  been  long  withheld  from  you;  but  if  you  begin 
to  see  a  twinkle  of  it " 

*'No  such  thing,"  answered  the  other.  "I'm  dealing 
with — however,  I  can't  let  out  much  about  it  yet — even 
to  you.  If  you're  spared  another  few  months,  I  lay 
you'll  hear  about  it." 

"I  shan't  be,"  answered  Twigg.  "My  home  is  ready 
and  I'm  ready  for  it.  A  week  or  two  is  all  that  I  can 
expect.  But  where  I'm  going  there'll  be  news  of  earth, 
if  I  read  my  Bible  aright;  and  along  with  other  things 
T  hope  it  may  come  to  my  ear  that  you  are  on  the  strait 
road  at  last  and  going  along  it  quick — to  make  up  for 
lost  time'." 

"You  won't  hear  that;  but  you'll  find  that  I'm  not 
played  out,  and  busy  taking  a  hand  with  the  rising  gen- 
eration. They  be  crying  for  a  bit  of  the  old  spirit,  I 
reckon ;  and  'tis  their  grandfathers,  and  not  their 
fathers,  can  best  show  'em  what  that  old  spirit  was 
like." 

A  woman  came  in,  and  Ouldsbroom  took  his  eternal 
farewell  of  the  fellow-man  now  about  to  vanish. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said;  "and  may  you  go  easy  as  a 
sleeping  babe  when  the  moment  comes,  Greg.  You've 
been  a  good,  useful  man  according  to  your  lights;  and 
if  there's  a  wakening,  as  such  as  you  believe,  and  even 
such  as  me  ban 't  too  forlorn  to  wish,  though  vainly — then 
you'll  be  there  with  the  best.  Nought  would  give  me 
greater  pleasure  than  to  find  out  some  day  that  you  was 
right  and  I  Avas  wrong." 

"You'll  find  it  out,"  answered  the  other;  "and  for 
ray  part,  though  dim-eyed  now,  I  can  see  that  the 
heavenly  folds  be  larger  than  I  thought  'em  once. 
There's  no  knowing  who  will  be  drove  in,  with  Christ 
for  sheepdog.  I  lived  in  a  deal  of  doubt  on  that  point; 
but  I  die  hoping,  Philip.  My  mind  be  getting  so  big  as 
my  swollen  body,  I  do  believe.  'Tis  like  a  balloon  for 
largeness  now.  And  if  we  worms  can  picture  such  a 
power  of  mercy  in  the  Lord,  what  must  the  real  thing 
be?" 

' '  You  '11  enlarge  His  mind  a  lot,  I  shouldn  't  wonder, ' ' 


424  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

said  the  other  cheerfully.  ' '  If  ever  you  find  Him,  Greg, 
just  tell  Him  to  look  all  round  things  a  bit  more.  Tell 
Him  to  try  and  put  Hisself  in  our  places,  if  He  can. 
I'll  get  going  now;  but  I'll  drink  to  your  good 
health  in  the  next  world  afore  I  leave  the  bar — as 
I've  often  and  often  drunk  to  your  good  health  in  this 
one. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Not  even  Tiger  knew  of  the  grassy  resting-place  on  Crow 
Tor,  but  Ouldsbroom,  as  his  natural  fire  abated,  spent 
much  time  here,  and  drowsed  and  slept  away  many 
hours  when  the  weather  allowed  of  it. 

He  clambered  here  on  a  July  day,  stretched  his  limbs, 
and  cursed  the  sun  for  lacking  warmth.  It  was  cold  for 
the  season.  The  wind  had  gone  north  after  some  days  of 
heavy  rain,  but  the  clouds  were  broken  at  last,  and  a  gen- 
eral improvement  marked  the  weather.  There  came, 
however,  an  added  sadness  to  this  sad  heart  from  the 
chill  breath  of  the  wind  and  the  lifelessness  of  what  he 
saw  from  his  uplifted  place.  Little  heather  grew  here- 
about, and  only  splashes  of  sphagnum  at  a  mountain 
spring  lightened  the  waste  and  welcomed  the  sun's  offer 
of  friendship.  The  grey  granite  and  green  integument 
of  the  hills  suffered  a  sort  of  extinction  under  this  light, 
and  the  colour,  though  fine  enough,  was  too  subtle,  too 
reserved  for  Philip's  eyes  to  mark  it.  To  him  the  world 
stretched  lifeless  and  hopeless.  The  reflection  of  his  own 
spirit  turned  back  to  him  unbroken  from  it.  He  smoked, 
strove  to  put  away  recent  discouragements,  and  occupied 
himself  with  his  supreme  project.  The  time  was  nearly 
come  for  it.  With  childish  cunning  he  had  matured 
his  plans,  and  now  waited  only  for  a  pending  event  to 
carry  them  forward. 

He  had  a  milch  cow  in  his  little  croft  at  Brown's 
House,  and  had  laid  in  great  store  of  biscuits  and  rusks, 
sweetmeats  and  such  things  as  children  love.  Some 
poultry — safe  in  a  fox-proof  run — were  also  there.  He 
had  taken  lessons  in  cooking  from  Minnie,  who  little 
guessed  his  purpose. 

425 


426  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

Events  at  Hartland  conspired  to  increase  Philip's  de- 
termination, while  its  fatuity  and  folly  were  quite  ob- 
scured from  his  failing  intellect.  He  poured  out  his 
whole  hopes  and  energies  upon  this  enterprise.  The 
thought  was  never  long  out  of  his  mind,  and  he  prided 
himself  mightily  on  his  skill  in  having  kept  it  such  a 
secret.  But  it  was  the  craft  of  a  madman.  The  idea  and 
its  execution  alone  obsessed  him ;  he  did  not  look  beyond 
it.  The  thing  should  be  done  in  defiance  of  all  obstacle, 
and  once  done  he  trusted  himself  to  defend  it  against 
the  might  of  the  world  in  arms.  He  told  himself  that 
duty  demanded  this  performance.  Each  time  he  met 
Martin,  he  came  from  the  interview  with  increasing 
fixity  of  purpose. 

Martin  was  very  busy  and  the  renewed  amenity  had 
perished.  High  words  had  passed,  because  the  younger 
strove  to  control  Philip's  credit,  and  had  grumbled  at 
some  large  waste  of  money.  He  desired  Ouldsbroom  to 
inspect  the  accounts  of  the  farm,  and  had  expected  some 
commendation  for  his  brilliant  stewardship.  But  the 
old  man  would  look  at  nothing.  Philip  asked  for  increas- 
ing sums  of  money,  and  when  Martin  found  the  purpose 
to  which  these  payments  were  put,  he  withheld  them. 
Once  Philip  gave  a  five-pound  note  to  a  blind  woman  on 
the  road;  once  he  marched  into  the  'Ring  o'  Bells'  with 
a  party  of  eight  gipsies,  and  spent  thirty  shillings  upon 
food  and  drink  for  them. 

He  had  sworn  now  never  to  see  Martin  again;  he  had 
openly  threatened  in  hearing  of  moor-men  to  lie  in  his 
path  some  night  and  shoot  him. 

The  younger  man  did  not  fear  assault;  but  he  calcu- 
lated the  probable  length  of  Philip's  life,  and  heartily 
trusted  that  his  end  was  near. 

"We  know  that  they'll  do  something  with  him  in  the 
world  to  come, ' '  he  said  to  Minnie.  ' '  'Tis  beyond  human 
power  or  human  prayer  to  help  him  in  this  one.  God 
made  him  for  His  own  good  purposes;  but  what  those 
purposes  were  we  shall  never  know  till  we  hear  in  another 
life  than  this." 

Tiger  was  still  told  off  to  the  task  of  watching  Philip 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  427 

and  waiting  upon  him.  He  met  the  wanderer  now  on 
the  way  home  from  Crow  Tor. 

''Been  looking  round  about  for  you  everywhere, 
master. ' ' 

''No  matter  for  that.  Come  in  and  us '11  have  a  drop 
of  drink.  The  baggering  sun  don 't  seem  to  have  a  blink 
o'  fire  in  it  nowadays.  Not  for  my  bones,  any  way.  I 
can't  catch  heat." 

**  'Tis  the  cold  wind.  Come  and  have  a  bite.  I've 
fetched  over  a  fine  shepherd 's  pie  from  missis.  I  '11  make 
a  fire  and  hot  it  up  for  you." 

"How  do  she  go  on?" 

"The  child's  due.  But  she's  very  well  and  cheerful. 
My  Mary 's  up  along  with  her. ' ' 

"I'll  ride  over  to-morrow  morning.  Try  and  get  him 
out  of  the  way,  if  you  can." 

"Twigg's  gone,"  said  Tiger.  "Last  night  he  died, 
and  very  comfortable,  by  all  accounts.  His  old  woman's 
going  to  stop  and  his  second  son-in-law's  to  take  over 
'Warren  House.'  " 

"Even  that  man  was  better  at  the  finish  than  my  boy 
will  ever  be.  Life  soaked  a  little  of  the  cursed  starch 
out  of  Greg  the  last  year  or  two.  But  not  Martin.  He  '11 
never  bate  an  inch,  or  pity  weakness,  or  pardon  sin. 
Never  did  wrong  in  the  little  sense,  and  never  did  right 
in  the  large  one.  Born  with  a  flint  for  a  heart ;  and  it 's 
broke  everybody  but  you.  Not  only  me,  mind  you;  but 
his  wife  and  many  another  here  and  there.  She  may 
stick  up  for  him;  she  may  say  her  prayers  to  him,  for 
all  I  know ;  but  you  look  in  her  poor  eyes  and  remember 
how  once  they  shined,  and  read  'em  now.  Pity — that's 
the  word  the  world  cries  out  to  my  son;  but  his  ear  ban't 
built  to  let  it  in.  He  would  have  ruined  that  chap  over 
thicky  barn  but  for  me.  The  jjoor  man  came  to  me 
crying — crying,  mind  you.  Think  what  a  hell  of  hard- 
ness it  takes  to  make  a  grown  man  cry.  'I'm  alive  still,' 
I  said  to  him.  And  I  've  commanded  that  thirty  pounds 
be  given  to  him.  And  he's  had  it.  And  if  Martin  had 
refused  to  let  me  handle  my  own  in  that  matter,  I'd 
nave  burned  down  the  barn  and  let  him  and  his  blasted 


428  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

Rechabites  howl  in  the  ruins  of  it,  like  the  water-drink- 
ing jackals  they  be.  And  many  such-like  tales  I've  heard. 
When  he 's  driven  'em  to  their  marrow-bones,  or  devoured 
a  widow's  house,  or  some  such  knavish  trick,  then  the 
people  find  me  out  and  remember  I  ban't  dead  yet.  'I 
was  the  first  to  go,'  I  tell  'em.  'Don't  expect  nothing 
from  me.  Here  am  I,  living  here  in  this  here  ruin,  wait- 
ing for  death  to  release  me.'  But  still  they  come  for 
succour,  and  I  give  it  if  I  can. ' ' 

"I  thought  you  was  feeling  better." 

"I'm  all  right;  I'm  all  right.  I  don't  want  to  die, 
Tiger,  and  I  ban't  going  to  die,  for  that  matter.  My 
work's  not  done  yet " 

He  broke  off,  and  looked  at  the  other.  Tiger's  back 
was  turned  and  he  knelt  and  blew  on  the  fire. 

Philip  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  can't  tell  you — not  even  you;  though  well  I 
know  you're  my  side." 

"And  always  have  been." 

"You'll  know  soon  enough.  'Tis  a  thing  calling  for 
some  manhood  in  me.  'Twill  surprise  the  pack  of  'em 
when  it  comes  about.  I've  got  to  live  for  fifteen  year 
yet — fifteen  year.  I  was  never  known  to  drop  a  job  in 
the  middle,  and  I  shan't  begin  now.  And,  if  need  be, 
I'll  fight " 

"Don't  you  go  and  do  anything  rash,  Phil.  Not  at 
your  time  of  life.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  'tis.  I 
might  help  you." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  I'm  not  so  sure;  but — leave  that. 
You'll  Imow  soon  enough.  It  may  happen  to-morrow, 
for  all  I  can  tell." 

He  drank,  and  presently  Tiger  made  him  eat.  Long 
familiarity  with  Philip's  surprises  caused  anxiety  to  the 
younger  now.  There  were  things  hidden — not  only  in 
the  old  man's  mind,  but  in  his  dwelling.  There  was  a 
great  box  locked  up  in  a  corner,  and  he  refused  to  tell 
Tiger  of  its  contents.  He  had  been  meddling  in  financial 
matters  also,  and  Tiger  knew  that  henceforth  refusal 
would  meet  his  increasing  and  unreasonable  demands  in 
the  direction  of  money.    Ouldsbroom  had  long  ago  signed 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  429 

control  into  the  hands  of  Martin,  but  thus  far  Unity's 
son  had  not  exercised  it  when  Philip  called  for  cash. 

Suddenly  impressed  with  the  importance  of  keeping 
well  and  strong,  the  old  man  ate  heartily,  and  presently 
rose  to  a  more  cheerful  mood.  But  Tiger  felt  unusually 
anxious  for  him.  He  was  listless,  and  his  voice  sounded 
weakly.  Again  and  again  he  came  to  the  brink  of  his 
enterprise  and  trembled  to  impart  it,  but  abstained. 

Presently  he  grew  drowsy  and  declared  that  he  wished 
to  sleep.    Then  Tiger  left  him. 

"I'll  ride  over  in  the  morn,"  promised  Philip,  "and  I 
hope  as  another  grandchild's  little  pipe  will  he  tuning 
up  to  welcome  me  afore  long  now." 


CHAPTER  XV 

On  the  following  clay  Philip  was  in  the  saddle  early.  He 
rode  to  the  top  of  Broad  Down,  made  fast  his  horse  there, 
then  descended  into  the  valley  of  the  river,  and  presently 
reached  Hartland. 

Tiger  was  the  first  to  meet  him. 

' '  Doctor 's  come, ' '  he  said.  ' '  'Tis  going  on  all  right — 
so  Mary  tells  me.    Mr.  Martin 's  in  the  house. ' ' 

"Where's  Wesley  to?" 

"Up  under  the  tor  along  with  the  girl." 

The  old  man's  heart  beat  hard.  Even  as  he  had  hoped, 
so  things  fell  out.  The  day  was  fine;  the  minds  of  all 
at  Hartland  were  preoccupied. 

"I'll  go  up  and  have  a  game  along  with  him  for  a 
bit." 

* '  You  can 't  do  better.  No  doubt  Mr.  Martin  will  bring 
you  the  news  himself  come  presently." 

Philip  went  off,  and  soon  found  the  little  boy  with  a 
maiden  to  watch  him. 

"You  be  off  home,"  he  said.  "They'll  want  you  to 
run  messages.  I'll  take  charge  of  the  child  and  bring 
him  back  along  presently." 

The  girl  disappeared,  and  Philip  heaved  a  mighty  sigh 
of  satisfaction.  His  road  lay  all  clear  before  him  now. 
Wesley  expressed  the  most  active  delight  at  change  of 
nurses  and  was  soon  playing  tyrant. 

"Us  be  going  to  be  men,  to-day — you  and  me,"  said 
Ouldsbroom.  "Us  have  got  to  ride  on  gran 'father 's 
'oss,  and  you  shall  hold  the  reins,  if  you  mind  to.  But 
we  mustn't  bide  caddling  about  here.    We've  got  to  go 

430 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  431 

farther  than  ever  you've  been  in  your  life  yet,  my  grand 
chap — right  away  up  over  yonder  hill.  And  there  we 
shall  find  'Samuel'  waiting  for  us.  Do  'e  want  to  come 
and  see  grandfather's  house  and  all  the  fine  things  he've 
got  for  you  there?" 

"Ess,  I  do,"  declared  Wesley. 

"Then  away  we  go;  and  when  you'm  tired,  I'll  carry 
you. ' ' 

He  talked  of  the  sugared  biscuits  and  sweetmeats,  and 
told  Wesley  to  go  faster.  But  the  child's  short  legs  could 
make  but  slow  progress,  and  the  impatient  old  man 
picked  him  up  at  last  and  panted  up  the  great  slope  of 
Broad  Down  with  him. 

Often  he  looked  back,  but  as  yet  no  sign  of  life  ap- 
peared at  Hartland,  and  none  had  come  to  seek  him  on 
the  tor.  Now  that  hill  had  shrunk  to  nothing,  seen  from 
the  mightier  mound  beyond,  and  Hartland  was  hidden. 

They  rested  presently,  and  Philip  picked  a  handful  of 
whortleberries  for  the  boy.  Then,  full  of  a  sudden  fear 
that  he  might  be  pursued  and  overtaken  before  he 
reached  his  stronghold,  he  took  the  child  on  his  back 
and  climbed  on. 

He  was  giddy  before  the  summit  had  been  reached ; 
but  his  excitement  kept  him  alert  and  fortified  his 
strength. 

They  turned  the  ridge  of  the  hill  and  came  to  certain 
neolithic  hut  circles  spread,  grey  and  ragged,  in  the 
heath. 

Philip's  horse  was  tethered  here,  and  soon  he  had 
mounted  and  lifted  the  child  vip  before  him. 

"That's  the  style!  Now  I  be  going  to  take  you  all 
the  way  to  gran 'father's  house.  And  you  shall  steer 
'Samuel'  and  I  shall  hold  you." 

The  eager  infant  spraddled  out  his  little  legs  and  held 
the  reins  one  in  each  hand.  They  hung  loose,  and  the  old 
horse  went  on  his  familiar  way.  Philip  kept  a  tight  arm 
round  the  child  and  talked  to  him. 

"And  will  Wesley  like  to  come  to  gran 'father?  Will 
he  like  to  keep  house  along  with  me  and  bide  there,  and 
see  me  shoot  birds  and  catch  fish  ? ' ' 


432  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

"Ess,  I  will  then." 

"And  so  you  shall;  and  the  devil  and  all  his  angels 
shan't  take  you  away  from  me  no  more." 

Presently  he  spoke  again. 

"You  must  know,  Wesley,  that  me  and  father  ban't 
quite  the  same;  but  I'm  older  and  wiser  than  him,  and 
I  want  for  you  to  be  a  proper  man,  like  me — not  half  a 
man,  like  him.  I  want  for  you  to  be  kind  to  everybody, 
and  large-hearted  and  gentle  to  the  poor,  and  all  that. 
But  father  can't  teach  you  them  things,  because  he's 
never  larned  'em.  I  tried  terrible  hard  to  get  it  into 
him;  but  I  couldn't.  Perhaps  I  didn't  try  hard  enough. 
He  never  understood  me — not  like  you  do.  But  we  un- 
derstand one  another  something  wonnerful — you  and  me 
— and  a  quick-witted  boy,  like  you,  will  soon  larn  all  I 
can  teach  you." 

The  horse  stumbled  and  recovered  himself.  Philip's 
arm  gripped  the  child  and  Wesley  shouted  with  laughter 
at  the  mishap.    His  grandfather  laughed  too. 

"Whoa!  What  be  'Samuel'  up  to?  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
The  rascal!  That's  right — you  laugh  like  that.  You 
and  me  will  always  be  laughing.  That's  what  we'm 
here  for — to  laugh  and  make  others  laugh.  But  nobody 
laughs  nowadays.  But  we'll  teach  'em.  You'm  that 
wise  a 'ready — you  know  'tis  better  to  laugh  than  cry. 
Your  father  never  laughed  much  at  your  age.  But  you 
and  me  will.  And  you'll  grow  so  quick  as  a  larch  up- 
along  with  me.  And  I  '11  bide  as  I  am.  Not  a  day  older 
will  I  get  till  you'm  a  big  boy  and  full  of  my  sense," 

The  child  was  excited  and  joyful.  He  chattered  awhile 
and  pointed  to  sheep  and  cattle  dotted  over  the  Moor. 

' '  They  be  all  father 's  things, ' '  said  Ouldsbroom.  ' '  His 
and  mine.  You  mustn't  forget  him,  Wesley.  Ill  though 
he's  used  me,  I  won't  set  you  against  him.  Too  wise  for 
that.  I  be  going  to  make  such  a  man  of  you  that,  some 
day,  you'll  go  along  to  your  father  and  lift  him  up  and 
do  for  him  what  his  father  could  never  do.  I  be  going  to 
fashion  your  little  budding  mind  into  such  a  pattern  that 
you'll  teach  your  father  to  be  a  better  chap  and  draw 
the  poison  out  of  him.    All  that  I'm  going  to  do;  and 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  433 

though  I  shan't  be  here  to  see  it,  I  shall  die  easier  for 
knowing-  about  it.  Life's  a  dark  thing,  Wesley — dark 
and  difficult,  because  we  can't  make  people  see  with  our 
eyes.  But  you  must  be  patient  with  everybody.  You 
must  larn  to  bend  early,  else  you'll  be  broke  late. 
They've  never  broke  me,  never,  though  God  He  knows 
they've  plotted  and  planned  to  do  it.  But  you  and  me 
ban't  built  to  break." 

He  bent  over  the  little  boy  and  lifted  his  chin  and 
kissed  him. 

' '  You  mustn  't  think  life 's  all  fun.  It  did  ought  to  be, 
but  it  never  falls  out  like  that.  The  w^orld  's  got  into  such 
a  mess  now  that  it  have  to  work  terrible  hard  to  keep 
going  at  all.  There's  too  much  work  in  it  now.  I  see 
the  change  even  in  my  time.  Less  joy  than  there  was, 
and  more  care.  Folk  be  like  the  birds  and  beasts  now. 
They  've  no  time  in  life  for  anything  but  earning  a  living. 
There's  more  hungry  people  than  there  was — more  folk 
and  less  money  for  'em.  I  see  a  lot  of  them  now — wan- 
derers that  don't  know  what  they  be  seeking.  But  I 
can't  tell  what  have  brought  it  about.  Nobody  demands 
the  right  to  be  joyful  now.  The  highest  they  rise  to  is 
for  leave  to  work  their  fingers  to  the  bone.  'Tis  a  very 
rotten  fashion  of  world,  Wesley,  where  joy's  forgot.  The 
boys  don't  even  marry  the  girls  now  but  in  fear  and 
trembling  of  the  future." 

A  fox  slipped  away  over  the  heath  ahead  of  them.  The 
child  was  all  excitement  and  wanted  to  follow. 

"Beat  'Samuel!'    Make  him  run!"  he  cried. 

"No,  no!  Mister  Pox  be  safe  for  the  present.  He'm 
going  to  his  wife  and  family,  maybe.  I  lay  he  was  out 
here  to  think  a  bit  and  turn  life  over  in  his  mind  and  get 
away  from  the  noise  to  home.  So  must  all  we  married 
men,  and  married  foxes  too  sometimes.  Or  maybe  he 
was  after  a  rabbit  for  dinner.  You'll  see  a  fine  rally  of 
foxes  up  to  Brown's  House.  They  want  my  chickens, 
the  rascals,  but  'No,  no,'  I  say,  'they  chickens  be  here 
for  my  brave  boy  to  eat  their  eggs ! '  " 

"I  do  love  a  naked  egg,"  said  Wesley,  and  the  old 
man  laughed. 

28 


434  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

' '  Was  ever  such  a  funny  fellow  ?  And  you  shall  have 
many  a  naked  egg,  as  you  call  it — hard-boiled  wi'  the 
shell  off.  And  many  another  good  thing  you  shall  have — 
sweeties  to  make  you  happy  and  broth  to  make  you  fat! 
When  us  come  over  yonder  ridge,  you'll  see  gran 'father's 
house  an'  gran 'father's  cow  in  the  croft.  And  you  shall 
have  your  own  garden,  if  you  mind  to,  an '  I  '11  come  and 
dig  in  it  for  'e. " 

They  jogged  on  and  the  child  said  he  was  hungry. 

"And  right  to  be,  and  soon  shall  you  have  your  fill." 

Philip  looked  round  sometimes,  but  there  was  no  sign 
that  any  followed.  His  muddled  intellect  apprehended 
pursuit  and  attack.  But  he  was  resolved  that  once  within 
the  stronghold  of  his  home,  no  powers  of  persuasion  or 
violence  should  make  him  yield  up  Wesley.  He  had 
planned  this  abduction  long  ago,  and  with  a  child's  indif- 
ference to  reality,  proposed  to  bring  up  the  little  boy 
at  Brown's  House  on  his  own  model  of  what  a  boy 
should  be. 

' '  You  ban 't  the  first  as  I  've  trained,  my  young  shaver. 
There's  Tiger — you  love  Tiger,  don't  'e?" 

"Ess,  I  do  love  Tiger." 

"And  Tiger  was  my  boy.  I  made  Tiger,  and  you  and 
him  be  my  only  friends  now.  And  I'll  make  you  like 
him.  Tiger's  a  good  man,  framed  to  bring  nought  biit 
kindness  in  the  world.  And  your  father  might  be  the 
very  same  this  minute,  if  he'd  but  given  heed  to  me.  But 
we  '11  win  round  him  yet.  I  'm  never  beat,  and  I  '11  strike 
at  him  through  you  now,  and  see  if  that  will  fetch  out 
the  heart  of  him. ' ' 

They  reached  the  dwelling,  and  the  child  rejoiced  at 
it.  He  ran  about  on  a  voyage  of  discovery,  and  presently 
came  in  very  wet,  when  Philip  called  him  from  the  door. 

' '  Here 's  your  meat  ready, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Ah,  you  rogue, 
you've  been  in  the  water  I  see!" 

He  locked  the  door  and  barred  the  window  after  the 
child  entered;  then  he  took  off  Wesley's  shoes,  socks 
and  frock  and  put  them  by  the  fire.  Next  he  wrapped 
a  blanket  round  the  boy,  sat  him  on  his  lap,  and  fed  him 
with  biscuits  in  hot  milk.  The  old  man  had  drunk  heavily 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  435 

on  returning  home;  and  now  he  was  refreshed,  cheerful, 
and  garrulous. 

He  talked  to  Wesley  and  planned  their  future  to- 
gether. 

"I've  forgot  your  clothes,  my  bold  hero,  and  that's 
the  only  thing  as  I  have  forgot.  And  if  they  won't  see 
sense  and  meet  me  half  way  and  send  'em  by  Tiger,  then 
you  and  me  will  ride  to  Tavistock  some  fine  morning 
and  get  more  for  'e.  Drink  it  up;  then  I'll  give  'e  a 
sugar-plum. ' ' 

The  child  was  happy,  wearied  out,  and  ready  to  sleep. 
He  wanted  nothing  else.  He  smiled  at  Philip  now, 
sighed  comfortably  and  yawned.  Philip  finished-  the  pap 
himself  with  a  gulp  or  two.  Then  he  went  to  the  fire 
and  sat  down  in  an  easy  chair  with  his  treasure  on  his 
lap.  He  wiped  a  little  rim  of  milk  off  Wesley's 
mouth;  and  soon  the  youngster  nestling  close  to  him, 
drooped  and  slept.  In  half  an  hour  the  man  also  slum- 
bered. 

Elsewhere  Martin  Ouldsbroom  had  waited  for  a  child 
to  be  born  to  him.  He  worked  in  a  little  room  where 
he  kept  his  books  and  accounts.  He  was  making  cal- 
culations and  pondering  upon  a  problem.  He  gave  a 
tithe  of  all  that  he  earned  to  his  God ;  and  now  he  spec- 
ulated as  to  whether  that  sum  should  be  subtracted  from 
his  gross  earnings,  before  he  paid  rates  and  taxes  out  of 
them,  or  afterwards.  The  difference  was  not  consider- 
able, for  his  farm  was  freehold  and  the  land  his  own. 
He  decided,  however,  that  the  amount  of  his  fellow-man's 
claim  should  pay  tribute. 

Presently  a  daughter  appeared  at  Hartland,  and  Mar- 
tin was  told  that  his  father  waited  on  Hartland  Tor  to  hear 
the  news.  But  when  Tiger  hastened  hither  to  bring  it, 
and  ask  the  old  man  back  that  he  might  eat  with  his  son 
and  see  the  baby,  he  did  not  find  him.  Neither  was  there 
any  sign  of  the  boy.  Martin  felt  some  anxiety,  and  his 
care  deepened  as  noon  passed  and  the  day  waned.  Minnie 
was  not  told,  and  presently,  when  she  called  aloud  for 
Wesley,  Martin  saddled  his  horse  and  rode  to  seek  him. 


436  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

He  guessed  that  Ouldsbroom  had  taken  him  up  to 
Brown's  House,  and  doubted  not  that  he  would  meet  his 
father  and  ehild  returning  home  again. 

But  he  did  not  meet  them,  and  it  was  five  o'clock  before 
he  reached  the  lonely  dwelling,  fastened  his  horse  at  the 
gate,  and  hammered  at  the  portal.  Smoke  rose  from  the 
chimney,  but  his  knock  was  not  answered,  and  he  tried 
the  door,  to  find  it  fast. 

The  summons  had,  however,  wakened  Philip,  and  he 
made  ready.  He  roused  himself,  gathered  Wesley  to 
him,  carried  the  child,  still  sound  asleep,  into  his  bed- 
room, and  there  left  him  on  his  bed.  Next  he  peeped 
from  his  window  and  saw  Martin's  horse.  By  this  time 
the  visitor  had  knocked  again. 

Philip  opened  the  window  a  small  space. 

"Who's  out  there?"  he  asked.  "And  what  do  you 
want?" 

' '  'Tis  I,  father.  Tiger  tells  me  that  you  took  charge  of 
the  boy  this  morning.  But  I  never  thought  you'd  have 
brought  him  all  the  way  up  here.  You  must  be  tired 
out,  I'm  fearing.  Bring  him  along  and  he  shall  ride 
home  with  me." 

Martin  had  come  round  from  the  door.  He  looked  up 
and  saw  the  old  man  peering  out. 

"You  guessed  where  he  was — your  conscience  told 
you,  belike — if  you've  got  a  conscience  left  in  you.  Yes, 
he's  here;  and  here  he'll  stop.  I've  meant  to  do  this 
thing  these  many  days,  and  I've  plotted  and  schemed 
for  it  and  made  all  ready.  There's  everything  here  as 
he  wants  for  his  body  and  his  mind.  And  he  came  gladly, 
and  he's  going  to  bide  and  be  my  child,  till  I've  larned 
him  to  take  his  part  in  the  world  and  undo  a  bit  of  the 
mischief  that  you  've  done. ' ' 

"My  dear  father,  you  must  not  be  so  foolish.  Can't 
you  see  this  is  absurd — impossible?" 

"Is  it?  Well,  I  don't  think  so.  And  don't  you 'dear 
father'  me,  because  you're  long  cast  off  and  I  won't  have 
no  hypocrisy.  You  can  carry  that  to  them  that  trust 
you,  if  such  there  are." 

"Let  me  come  in  and  we'll  talk  it  over,"  said  the 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  437 

young  man.  He  gave  a  sigh  and  prepared  to  return  to 
the  door ;  but  the  other  laughed  aloud. 

"You  think  to  come  round  me  like  that,  do  you?  I've 
been  such  a  poor  innocent  all  these  years  that  I  can't 
see  through  your  hookem-snivey  ways  even  yet — eh? 
No,  you  don 't  come  in  here — never  while  an  iron  padlock 
can  keep  you  out.  I've  had  a  brace  of  extra  bolts  put 
up  against  to-day.  And  they  be  close  shot  home,  I 
promise  you.  You'll  never  come  in  this  house  while  I'm 
living.  And  if  you  did,  you'd  find  your  child  strangled. 
He's  got  loose  from  you,  and  never  shall  you  lay  a  finger 
on  him ;  never  more  shall  you  rob  him  of  his  little  joys  or 
flog  his  tender  hide.  Go  back  to  your  newborn  child  and 
torture  that  and  hear  it  scream.  Your  boy  be  my  boy 
now — safe  from  you  while  this  arm  can  hold  him." 

"Think,  father;  think  what  you  are  doing.  Such 
things  can't  be.  There's  no  room  in  the  world  for  them. 
I've  never  denied  you  your  grandson.  But  you  can't 
have  him  here.  Do  be  reasonable  and  see  how  this  must 
look  to  any  impartial  person.  Think  of  his  mother,  if 
not  of  his  father." 

"I'm  his  father,  I  tell  you — father  and  grandfather 
both.  The  child's  content  and  at  peace.  He's  thankful 
to  God  to  be  out  of  Hartland  and  up  here  along  with  me. 
He  wouldn't  go  back  if  you  was  to  pray  him.  He  knows 
what's  best.  And  his  mother  knows  too.  No  need  to 
name  her  name.  You  tell  her  that  he's  safe  and  joyous 
and  full  of  meat,  and  that  I've  bought  a  shipload  of 
proper  food  for  him — that 's  all  you  've  got  to  do. ' ' 

"I  must  have  my  child,  father.  You  can't  come  be- 
tween him  and  me.    The  law  won't  allow  it." 

"Damn  the  law!  I've  got  him  and  I'm  in  the  right, 
and  let's  see  the  law  as  will  be  strong  enough  to  break 
my  padlocks  and  take  him  from  me.  Be  off  and  get  out 
of  my  sight.  Haven't  my  eyes  ached  oft  enough  at 
you?  And,  law  or  no  law,  I  ban't  going  to  hand  the 
lamb  to  the  wolf  for  any  man's  pleasure.  No  call  to 
prowl  round  this  fold,  for  you'll  never  get  in.  And, 
mark  me :  if  you  use  might  and  think  to  pull  down  my 
walls  and  steal  what's  within,  then  you'll  find  yourself 


438  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

cheated  for  once,  as  you've  cheated  the  world  too  often. 
You'll  find  dead  foLk  and  nought  else.  So  if  you  think 
to  use  force,  bring  two  coffins  with  you — a  big  one  and  a 
little  one!" 

Philip  felt  a  hand  in  his.  The  child  had  wakened  at 
his  noise,  arisen  and  come  to  him. 

"Wesley's  hungry,"  he  murmured. 

The  old  man  picked  him  up  and  held  him  to  the  win- 
dow, 

"There  he  is — look  at  him!"  he  cried;  "ax  him  if 
he  wants  to  go  home  to  be  whipped  and  starved.  Tell 
that  man  as  you've  got  no  use  for  him,  my  pretty.  Say 
you  be  going  to  bide  along  with  grandfather." 

"Ess,  I  be." 

"For  ever  and  ever,"  said  Philip, 

"For  ever  an'  ever,"  echoed  Wesley. 

Martin  spoke  for  some  time,  and  mentioned  the  fact 
that  his  wife  had  got  a  daughter.  But  Philip  only  re- 
gretted that  the  babe  was  born  alive,  and  soon  the 
younger  perceived  that  nothing  could  be  gained  by  fur- 
ther speech.  His  son  appeared  to  be  perfectly  happy, 
and  there  seemed  no  immediate  fear  that  he  would  grow 
either  frightened  or  forlorn. 

"I'll  go,"  he  said.  "But  I  warn  you  that  this  cannot 
be.    Suppose  anything  was  to  happen  to  you " 

"Much  you'd  care  for  that.  All  the  ill  that  has  happed 
to  me  in  this  world  be  of  your  heaping.  And  if  my 
heart's  cracked,  don't  you  ever  pretend  you  don't  know 
who  cracked  it.  You've  murdered  me,  remember  that, 
when  you  hear  I'm  gone.  But  it  won't  be  yet.  Here's 
my  work.  Night  and  day  I  '11  be  busy  for  this  dinky  boy. 
I  shan't  go  till  he's  big  enough  to  stand  alone.  I  shan't 
go  till  I've  taught  him  how  to  face  you.  He's  made  me 
young  again  a 'ready.  I'm  well.  I'm  strong  as  a  lion. 
He'll  mend  your  work  yet  and  help  to  heal  the  bloody 
wounds  you've  dealt  me." 

Philip  shut  the  window  and  made  it  fast.  Two  bars 
had  been  screwed  upon  the  inside,  so  that  none  might 
force  an  entrance. 

Martin  turned  and  went  back  to  his  horse  and  Oulds- 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  439 

broom  watched  him  ride  away.  Then  he  rubbed  his 
hands  and  laughed  to  the  child. 

''So  much  for  him — soon  sent  him  off  with  his  tail 
between  his  legs !  'Twill  be  a  long  time  afore  he  troubles 
us  again.  You'll  be  growed  big  enough  and  bold  enough 
to  fire  my  gun  afore  he  comes  here  any  more.  And  then 
you  can  shoot  him  for  grandfather — and  a  good  day's 
work  'twill  be." 

"Wesley's  hungry,"  repeated  the  child. 

"Come  on,  then,  and  stuff;  and  if  you'm  hungry,  I 
swear  I'm  thirsty  along  of  such  a  lot  of  talk.  But  'tis 
deeds,  not  words  for  us  in  future.  You  eat  your  fill  of 
these  here  goodies  and  I'll  drink  a  drop;  and  then  us '11 
walk  out  a  little  way  and  I'll  show  'e  the  chickens  and 
fetch  in  an  egg  for  your  supper.  But  I  must  keep  my 
weather  eye  lifting — else  they'll  go  and  kidnap  you  from 
me.    And  God  help  the  creature  as  tries  to  do  that ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XVI 

With  something  of  the  fearful  pleasure  of  a  child  mak- 
ing believe,  Philip  kept  guard  over  Wesley  when  night 
came.  He  fed  him,  washed  him,  and  put  him  to  bed. 
Then  he  loaded  his  gun  and  shut  up  his  house  with  a 
great  padlock  and  two  bolts. 

For  some  hours  he  preserved  a  keen  watch  and  was 
alert  for  every  sound.  Once  he  crept  out  into  the  sum- 
mer night  and  prowled  about  to  see  that  none  lay  in  wait. 
But  only  the  voices  of  darkness  fell  on  his  ear.  The 
weather  had  grown  warmer  and  mist  hung  drowsily  un- 
der the  stars.  Philip  was  about  to  retire  himself  and 
had  already  thrown  off  his  coat,  when  there  came  quick 
footsteps  at  last.  The  conflict  was  at  hand  and  his  heart 
leapt. 

"Steady!  Steady !"  he  said  to  himself.  "Keep  your 
wits  about  'e,  Phil ;  you  be  going  to  need  'em  now ! ' ' 

But  he  heard  no  speech,  and  it  was  clear  that  only  a 
solitary  man  approached.  The  feet  did  not  stop  at  the 
door,  but  came  round  the  house  to  the  window.  A  dog 
jumped  out,  barking  furiously.  Then  Tiger's  voice  stilled 
it.  Presently  there  fell  a  gentle  tap  upon  the  glass. 
Philip  stood  irresolute,  but  at  a  second  summons  he 
pulled  up  the  white  blind  and  looked  out.  Holding  the 
candle  above  his  head,  the  old  man  presently  recognised 
Tiger,  whereupon  he  opened  the  window. 

"Be  you  come  as  a  friend?"  he  asked. 

"A  friend  always,  and  you  know  it,  master." 

"There's  nobody  else  out  there?" 

"Nobody  else.    I've  walked  up  alone." 

"Swear  it  then." 

"I  swear  it.  Let  me  come  in  and  we'll  have  a  tell 
about  things." 

440 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  441 

' '  If  any  other  man  thrusts  through  my  door,  I  '11  shoot 
him." 

"And  welcome.    Would  I  deceive  you,  Phil?" 

"  'Tis  hard  to  trust  nowadays.  I've  been  bit  very 
bad  in  my  time.  Haven't  the  blood  of  my  own  veins 
deceived  me?  'Tis  as  if  your  right  hand  could  lie  to 
your  left. ' ' 

He  went  round  and  let  Tiger  into  the  house.  The 
younger  man  had  come  for  Wesley,  but  he  felt  small 
hope  that  he  would  succeed  in  his  mission.  Martin  had 
desired  to  go  also,  but  when  this  most  difficult  of  tasks 
was  put  upon  him,  Tiger,  while  promising  little,  yet  bar- 
gained to  carry  out  the  attempt  in  his  own  way. 

"I  must  go  to  him  empty-handed  and  alone,  and  may 
come  back  so,"  he  said.  "There'll  be  no  fighting  or 
struggling  with  him.  I'd  rather  do  away  with  myself 
than  hurt  a  hair  of  his  head.  If,  please  God,  I  can  get 
him  to  see  sense,  then  I  will  do.  But  I'll  use  nought 
but  gentle  words  to  him." 

And  now  he  entered  upon  his  unlikely  errand.  Philip 
bolted  the  door  behind  him  and  drew  the  blind  again. 

"Mark  this,"  he  said.  "You  and  that  sleeping  boy 
yonder  are  the  only  two  fellow-creatures  I've  got  left  in 
the  wide  world  now.  And  if  you're  here  as  a  friend,  I 
welcome  you,  as  I  have  done  since  first  I  set  eyes  on  you, 
when  you  came  to  Hartland  a  hungry,  weary  lad." 

"As  a  friend,  sure  enough.    I  needn't  tell  you  that." 

"Drink  then — drink  away  the  sharpness  of  your  eyes 
and  the  clearness  of  your  voice  a  bit.  I  can't  trust  an 
empty  man.  Have  a  good  go  at  the  whisky — then  we'll 
meet  on  even  ground.  I  was  just  going  to  bed  with  the 
gun  by  my  pillow.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  my  heart's 
been  on  the  rack  too  long,  Tiger.  It  have  had  to  fight 
against  more  than  one  human's  fair  load  of  trouble.  But 
I  shall  mend  very  quick  now.  Life's  got  very  simple 
and  straightforward  at  last.  I  see  the  way  as  clear  as 
the  way  of  the  bird  in  the  air." 

"So  much  the  better  then.  I'll  have  a  drink,  and 
gladly." 

The  other  poured  whisky  into  two  tumblers. 


442  THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE 

"I  be  running  rather  short,"  he  said.  "I've  thought 
more  on  milk  for  the  boy  than  whisky  for  myself  the  last 
few  days.    But  I'll  broach  another  bottle." 

"This  is  enough,  Phil — more  than  enough.  I  don't 
want  you  to  get  muddled  to-night.  I  want  you  to  listen 
to  me." 

But  Ouldsbroom  fetched  another  bottle,  opened  it,  and 
began  to  laugh. 

"I  triumphed  over  him,  I  warn  you!  Up  he  came  on 
his  boss  as  big  as  bull's  beef.  Must  have  his  child  that 
instant  moment !  'Did  I  know  what  I  was  doing?'  'The 
law  was  against  me/  and  all  the  rest  of  his  nonsense. 
But  I  soon  had  him  away.  He'd  have  seen  the  muzzle 
o£  my  gun  if  he'd  stopped  much  longer.  'I'll  suffer  no 
wolf  prowling  round  my  fold,'  I  said  to  the  villain. 
And  off  he  went. ' ' 

"He  don't  understand  you  like  I  do.  He  came  in  a 
wrong  spirit,  no  doubt.  But  'tis  very  different  when  you 
and  me  get  together.  'Twasn't  very  often,  after  you'd 
once  larned  me  sense,  that  I  ever  catched  myself  not 
thinking  same  as  you  think." 

' '  No,  because  you  'd  got  a  brain  to  work  upon — a  brain 

and  a  heart.    But  my  son Here,  fetch  out  this  cork, 

will  'e?  My  strength's  a  thought  low  to-night  along  of 
carrying  Wesley  up  the  hill.  Such  a  fine,  solid  lump  of 
a  child!  He's  going  to  be  like  me  in  body  so  well  as 
mind." 

"Happy  as  a  lark  along  with  you,  no  doubt?" 

"I  should  think  he  was.  A  noble  child  at  his  victuals. 
So  full  as  a  little  barrel  he  be.  He  '11  keep  my  old  bones 
warm  come  the  winter  nights ! ' ' 

"What  did  he  tell  about?  Didn't  he  whimper  a  bit 
for  his  mother  when  night  came  down?" 

' '  '  Whimper ' !  Not  him.  Jolly  as  a  badger,  and  didn  't 
want  to  go  to  bed.  Thought  to  be  playing  all  night  along 
o'  me.  But  of  course  he  went  off  after  his  supper.  And 
I  washed  him  and  dried  him  wi'  a  towel  bought  a-pur- 
pose ;  and  no  woman  could  have  done  it  better.  He  don 't 
want  his  mother." 

"She  wants  him,  however." 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  443 

*'Yoii  can  tell  her  this,"  said  Philip,  holding  his  glass 
between  the  table  and  his  mouth:  "I've  got  nothing 
against  Minnie — never  had,  and  never  shall  have.  She's 
a  good  girl,  and  if  he 's  broke  her  and  cast  the  tenderness 
out  of  her  a  bit,  that's  not  her  fault.  When  the  frost 
falls  the  still  water's  got  to  freeze.  She's  what  he's  made 
her  now,  not  what  nature  made  her.  So  I'm  too  wise 
to  blame  her.  She's  the  child's  mother,  and  I've  no  wish 
to  lift  up  any  bar  between  her  and  her  own.  She  can 
come  up  along  to  see  him  when  she  pleases ;  and  she  '11  be 
welcome,  so  long  as  she  comes  alone.  But  we  shan't  al- 
ways be  at  home,  mind.  I'm  not  going  to  bring  up  my 
boy  like  an  owlet  on  a  rock.  He'll  travel  afield  with  me 
and  sit  astride  on  my  saddle-bow,  and  see  the  world  and 
the  people  in  it.  He  '11  go  down  along  to  Two  Bridges ; 
he'll  meet  my  friend  Nick,  the  warrener  to  Wistman's 
Wood ;  and  he  shall  fall  in  with  other  fine  men  and  larn 
their  ways.  And  money  he  shall  never  see — never.  You 
tell  his  father  that.  So  long  as  he  bides  under  my  roof 
he  shall  not  handle  a  halfpenny,  or  hear  the  cursed 
devil's  chatter  of  coin  with  coin.  Not  a  pinch  of  that 
poison  shall  ever  touch  his  hand  till  he'm  old  enough  to 
know  that  it  is  poison.  Then  he'll  use  the  filth  in  its 
proper  place — as  manure  where  the  land  be  poor  and 
cries  for  enrichment.  Money's  manure,  I  tell  you,  and  a 
very  respectable  thing  regarded  as  such.  But  once  get 
to  lust  for  it,  like  my  son,  and  you  might  so  soon  roll 
with  the  pigs  in  it.  It  drips  off  Martin,  and  my  eyes  see 
it.  I  mark  the  stain  of  it  on  him;  I  smell  the  evil  smell 
of  it  when  he  passes  by." 

"All  so  wise  as  can  be — like  yourself.  But  now,  as  a 
friend  and  as  one  proud  to  be  your  friend,  I  've  got  to  ax 
you  to  listen  to  me  a  bit.  Have  a  smoke.  I've  brought 
a  full  pouch." 

The  other  loaded  and  lighted  his  pipe.  Then  Tiger 
spoke. 

"You  see,  Phil,  a  clever  old  man  like  you  must  look  all 
around  the  subject  afore  you  take  such  a  bold  step  as 
this;  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  you  have  done;  but  'tis 
often  worth  while  having  a  talk  with  another,  because 


444  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

two  heads  are  better  than  one.  And  though  I  ban't  very 
clever,  yet  I  think  very  much  the  same  as  you  most 
times. ' ' 

"Natural  you  should — seeing  as  I  taught  you  to 
think." 

"That's  it,  of  course.  I'm  a  long  way  behind  you — 
most  of  us  be,  for  that  matter.  But  I  think  same  as  you, 
and  so  the  things  that  I  be  thinking  now  be  much  the 
same  as  your  thoughts." 

Philip  shook  his  head. 

"You'm  getting  mixed,  Tiger.  Talking  ban't  in  your 
line,"  he  declared  very  wisely. 

"Right  again!  But,  touching  this  boy,  I've  thought  a 
lot,  and  no  doubt  what  I  think  you  '11  think  too,  if  I  can 
set  it  afore  you.  In  a  word,  'tis  the  mother  of  him.  You 
must  know  that  she 's  had  rather  a  bad  time  of  it,  and  be 
terrible  weak  to-night." 

"What's  that  to  me?  That  snake  told  me  he'd  got  a 
daughter.  'So  much  the  worse,'  I  said  to  him.  'I  wish 
for  her  own  sake  as  she  'd  been  born  dead. '  ' ' 

' '  Missis  be  very  fond  of  you,  and  she  puts  a  large  faith 
and  trust  in  you,  same  as  I  do. ' ' 

"And  every  reason  to.  Haven't  I  done  what  I  could 
for  her  against  him?  Haven't  I  withstood  him  for  her? 
Wouldn't  her  life  have  been  a  better  and  a  brighter 
thing  if  she'd  took  you,  for  instance,  or  any  other  man 
on  earth  but  him?  But  him  she  took,  and  had  to  abide 
by  it,  and  feel  the  slow  frostbite  of  him  creeping  through 
her  veins  and  reaching  to  her  heart.  I  saw  it — I  saw  it 
all,  and  she  knew  well  that  I  did. ' ' 

"She  thinks  the  world  of  your  great  kindness.  Well 
she  knows  that  you  never  brought  a  pang  to  a  living 
thing,  or  a  tear  to  any  cheek. ' ' 

"If  she'd  trusted  me  more  and  stood  my  side  more, 
'twould  have  been  better  for  her. ' ' 

' '  She  looked  to  you  all  she  could,  and  she  did  for  you 
all  she  could;  you  don't  forget  that.  But  you  know 
how  'tis.  No  woman  was  born  that  could  have  bided  in 
her  maiden  mind  after  she  was  married  to  IMister 
Martin.     That  strong  and  stubborn  is  his  nature,  that 


THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE  445 

all  must  bend  or  break  afore  it.  And  so  she  bent  to 
him." 

"And  never  will  she  come  straight  again.  But  this 
here  child — he  ban't  built  to  bend  and  he  shan't  be  broke 
neither — not  while  I'm  above  ground.  Let  him  break 
his  dogs  and  his  newborn  daughter — not  my  grandson. ' ' 

"You've  no  word  against  the  child's  mother,  how- 
ever?" 

"None.  She'd  do  right,  if  she  was  let  alone.  She's 
got  a  gentle  spirit  and  a  feeling  heart.  I'm  very  well 
content  with  her." 

"There's  none  knows  you  better  than  she  does,"  de- 
clared Tiger.  "There's  none — not  I  myself — has  more 
perfect  trust  and  love  for  you  than  what  she  has.  I'm 
come  with  a  message  hot  from  her  this  minute.  And  she 
wouldn't  give  it  to  no  second  person  neither.  Wouldn't 
trust  it  to  any  other  ear  but  mine,  master.  Nought  would 
do  but  I  went  up  in  her  room  and,  after  she  gave  the 
message,  she  spoke  to  me  again  and  said,  '  Tell  father  that. 
Tell  him  as  you  heard  it  straight  from  my  lips,  with  no 
go-between. ' ' 

"  'Twill  add  to  her  peace,  if  she's  all  I  think  her,  to 
know  her  brave  child  be  safe  while  she's  laid  by,"  de- 
clared Ouldsbroom.  "She's  no  cause  whatever  to  fret 
for  him ;  she  '11  not  strain  her  ear  to  hear  him  screaming 
under  his  father's  whip,  while  she's  too  feeble  to  come 
and  fight  for  him.  Safe — safe  he  is ;  and  presently,  when 
she's  strong  enough  to  do  it,  she  can  ride  up  and  see 
him,  and  mark  how  he's  growed  in  size  and  sense.  But 
to  Hartland  he  shall  not  go.  I  won't  trust  him  among 
'em  more." 

' '  Don 't  say  that.  There 's  one  stronger  call  than  yours 
— a  call  that  must  be  heard  and  heeded.  And  you  've  got 
to  see  it  the  same  as  I  see  it.  You  know  me.  I'm  your 
side,  thick  or  thin.  I've  fought  for  you  since  I  was  a 
child  myself.  But  a  mother's  a  mother,  and  given  a  real, 
right  down  good  mother . , .  .  " 

"Tell  me  her  message  and  take  back  mine,"  inter- 
rupted the  old  man. 

"I  will  then.    I  mind  every  word.    I 've  altered  nought. 


446  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

She  said  'Beg  dear  father,  for  the  true  love  he  has  for 
me,  to  let  me  have  Wesley  back,  or  I  shall  not  close  my 
eyes  this  night. '  And  then  she  said  a  word  to  me.  '  I  've 
had  a  cruel  day.  Tiger/  she  said;  'for  God's  sake  touch 
father 's  heart  for  me.  I  've  never  yet  gone  to  sleep  with- 
out my  boy  in  my  room.  I  can't  do  it.  'Twill  kill  me, 
Tiger.'  There,  Phil,  you  didn't  know  that.  In  your 
love  for  this  here  boy,  you  thought  only  of  him  and  his 
good;  you  forgot  belike  that  his  mother's  heartstrings 
was  wrapped  round  and  round  him.  She've  been  torn 
enough  to-day.  'Tisn't  in  your  big  spirit  to  add  one 
grief  to  her.  You  couldn  't — not  if  they  came  and  prayed 
you  to  do  it.  You'll  see  it  same  as  I  do  now.  Don't  we 
always  see  alike  ?  Be  us  ever  on  different  sides  of  a  ques- 
tion ?  So  well  I  know  it  that  I  said  to  her — I  said,  '  Fear 
nothing.    You'm  in  the  power  of  one  who  never  yet " 

Philip  held  up  his  hand.  Great  anxiety  and  tribula- 
tion marked  his  face. 

*'Say  no  more,"  he  answered.  "Suffer  me  to  think 
upon  this." 

He  rose  and  walked  about  the  kitchen.  Presently  he 
took  a  candle  and  went  into  the  adjoining  room. 

' '  Come  in  here, ' '  he  said  to  Tiger.  Then  the  two  men 
looked  at  the  sleeping  child. 

"That's  the  answer  to  his  mother's  message,"  said 
Philip.  "Tell  her  that  you've  seen  the  boy  sleeping  like 
a  cherub — warm,  happy,  and  so  comfortable  as  only  a 
babby  can  be.  Mark  down  that  picture  in  your  mind; 
feel  the  soft  stuff  he's  got  over  him — bought  for  him,  so 
as  my  rough  covering  shouldn't  chafe  his  flesh.  And 
now  look  in  this  here  box  and  see  what  I've  laid  in  for 
him." 

Tiger  obeyed. 

"A  wonderful  man!  Who  would  have  thought,  now, 
your  mind  could  reach  down  even  to  a  babby 's  need! 
Well,  well,  nought  will  be  wasted.  They  want  for  you 
to  come  to  Hartland  and  bide  there  a  bit.  The  missis  be 
terrible  anxious  to  see  you  and  ax  for  your  opinion  on  a 
score  o'  questions.  And  you  know  how  me  and  Rogers 
and  t 'others  will  welcome  you  back." 


THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE  447 

"I  shan't  see  Hartland  no  more." 

'  *  You  mustn  't  talk  like  that.  Now,  because  his  mother 
wants  the  child  so  bad,  and  because  holding  of  it  away 
from  her  may  be  dangering  her  health,  of  course  the  boy 
must  go  back.  That's  your  own  thought,  Phil — I  swear 
to  God  it  is — for  you  and  me  always  think  alike.  And  I 
wouldn't  believe  you  if  you  said  it  wasn't  your  thought. 
He  must  go.  If  she'd  been  different  now,  then  you  and 
me  would  have  felt  different.  If  she'd  been  a  bad  sort 
of  mother,  and  you  had  anything  against  her — but  it 
isn't  so.  She's  a  rare  good  mother,  and  the  boy's  her 
life,  and  it  ban't  for  a  brace  of  wise  men  like  you  and 
me  to  come  between  her  and  her  life. ' ' 

Philip  sat  down  again,  stared  at  Tiger  and  panted. 
His  head  drooped  forward  and  his  skin  grew  grey.  Tiger 
made  him  drink  a  little.  Then  he  rose  and  mended  the 
fire. 

"I  knew  you'd  see  it,"  he  went  on.  "What  don't  you 
see  where  another  person 's  good  is  the  matter  ?  A  suffer- 
ing, longing  mother — crying  for  her  young  and  can't 
reach  it !  Good  God,  Phil,  I  've  seen  you  sore  put  about 
for  a  bitch  or  ewe  when  she's  unhappy.  I  spoke  to  your 
daughter-in-law  afore  I  left  her  too.  I  said,  'You  know 
the  master.  You  know  if  ever  he's  come  between  any 
creature  and  their  own.'  I  said,  'He's  wise  as  Solomon 
in  the  matter  of  the  happiness  of  the  people  and  how 
to  add  to  it.'  I  said,  'Don't  shed  a  tear,  missis;  don't 
feel  one  thought  of  fear  that  you  shan't  have  your  li'l 
boy  in  reach  of  your  hand  this  night.'  That's  what  I 
said  to  her,  because  I  know  you  better  than  all  the  world 
knows  you.  Ess  fay!  And  I've  seen  deeper  in  your 
grand  old  heart  than  living  man  or  woman  ever  will.  I 
ax  you — I  pray  of  you,  Phil,  I " 

Tiger's  ovm  eloquence  had  touched  him.  He  broke 
off,  bent  forward,  put  his  hand  on  Ouldsbroom's  and 
held  it  tightly.    Philip  did  not  move  or  speak. 

The  younger  rose  presently  and  walked  up  and  down. 
Philip  remained  humped  up  by  the  table.  He  emptied 
his  glass  and  clasped  his  hands  on  his  chest.  At  length 
he  spoke^  and  his  voice  was  weak. 


448  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

' '  You  was  the  last — my  sheet  anchor  against  any  storm. 
I  never  thought  that  you  'd  go  over  to  them. ' ' 

"And  never  do  you  think  it.  I'm  but  the  ghost  of 
yourself,  and  when  I  speak  to  you  'tis  yourself  speaking. 
And  if  you'd  heard  her  speak,  as  I  did,  you'd  think  now 
as  I  do  and  you  'd  do  what  I  must  do.  We  're  not  against 
you — never  you  dream  that.  But  'tis  the  mother  in  her 
— yearning  for  her  own.  You  know  how  it  feels  better 
than  I  can  tell  you." 

The  old  man's  mind  wandered. 

"You'm  childless  yet,  Tiger;  but  you  must  hope.  I 
waited  long,  remember.  'Twill  come ;  and  when  it  do, 
you'll  never  keep  it  away  from  me,  will  you?  You'll  let 
me  help  to  fashion  your  son,  same  as  I  fashioned  you  ? ' ' 

"By  God,  you  shall!" 

'  *  In  bringing  up  the  childer ' '  began  Philip. 

He  wandered  on,  and  the  younger  man,  greatly  daring, 
went  to  the  sleeping-room,  lifted  Wesley  gently  and 
brought  him  back  to  the  fire.  The  child  still  wore  his 
smock. 

Philip  started  up  when  he  saw  what  Tiger  had  done. 
He  swayed  on  his  legs  a  little ;  then  he  sat  down  again. 

"He'll  be  shouting  out  with  all  his  might  for  you  in 
the  morn,"  declared  Tiger.  "You'll  be  the  first  word 
on  his  lips,  I  warrant !  And  you  mustn  't  keep  him  wait- 
ing, master.  I  shall  tell  'em  that  you  '11  come  down  along 
very  quick." 

The  old  man  seemed  stricken  in  mind  and  body.  He 
kept  putting  his  hand  out  and  drawing  it  back;  but  he 
did'not  move  from  his  chair. 

' '  Can  you  take  him  from  me  ?  Have  you  got  the  heart 
to  do  it?  He's  all  that's  left  for  me  to  help — all — out  of 
the  whole  earth." 

"You'd  do  the  same,  Phil — the  very  same,  if  we  was 
to  change  places." 

"You're  strong,  and  I'm  weak." 

"Don't  say  that — you  shan't  say  it!"  cried  the  other. 
"  'Tis  I'm  weak  afore  you,  and  always  have  been.  The 
world's  weak  afore  the  likes  of  you — all  that's  best  in  it. 
Hold  him  in  your  arms,  and  keep  him  in  your  arms — 


THE    THIEF    OF    VIRTUE  449 

keep  him  there  so  long  as  you  will.  And  not  a  regiment 
of  sojers  shall  take  him  out  of  'em  while  I  can  see  to 
fight." 

He  put  Wesley  on  Philip's  lap.  The  child  turned,  half 
woke,  opened  his  eyes,  then  shut  them  again. 

"There  he  is,  and  there  he  shall  bide,  master.  Only 
you  shall  give  him  up  to  his  mother.  None  shall  take 
him — none. ' ' 

Philip  leant  back.  His  hand  listlessly  fingered  the 
child's  hair. 

"I'll  give  him  back,  then,"  he  said.  "And  along  with 
him  you  can  take  the  last  pinch  of  life  I've  got  left. 
I'd  have  lived  for  him — years  and  years — but  now  it's 
all  done.  Tell  him,  when  he  grows,  how  hard  I  fought 
for  him ;  but  what 's  one  old  man  against ? ' ' 

"  'Tis  your  wish  I  take  him?" 

Philip  nodded. 

' '  To  his  mother — from  me. ' ' 
.    Presently  he  spoke  to  the  slumbering  child. 

"Good-bye,  boy;  and  if  ever  you  hear  tell  of  this 
night " 

He  broke  off,  then  resumed: 

"Pick  him  up  and  begone.  There's  a  little  blanket  as 
I  bought  for  him — wait  a  minute. ' ' 

He  fetched  the  wrap  and  Wesley's  other  clothes  that 
hung  by  the  fire.  The  child  was  fretful  at  being  wakened 
and  dressed. 

"I  shall  be  back  so  soon  as  ever  I  can,"  declared  Tiger. 
"I'm  coming  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  night  with  you. 
But  'twill  be  morning  a 'most  before  I  can  be  up  again. 
You  get  off  to  bed,  and  I  lay  I'll  bring  some  joyful  words 
from  his  mother  presently." 

They  were  at  the  entrance  now. 

"No  call  for  you  to  come  back.  None  need  ever  come 
back  to  me  no  more.    It's  all  ended  now." 

"Don't  you  say  that.  Lie  down  and  get  a  bit  of  rest. 
You'll  see  'em  to-morrow." 

Tiger  went  away. 

* '  Keep  him  warm  ! ' ' 

"That  I  will,"  shouted  back  the  other  from  the  dark- 

29 


450  THE   THIEF   OF   VIRTUE 

ness.     *'  'Tis  as  mild  as  milk  to-night.     He'll  take  no 
hurt." 

Dawn  had  broken  before  the  weary  Tiger  returned  to 
Brown's  House  and  found  the  door  wide  open  and  the 
place  empty.  Thin  white  light  struggled  through  the 
window,  but  there  was  not  enough  to  show  the  interior. 
The  candle  had  guttered  out  and  gone,  so  Tiger  lighted 
matches  and  looked  about  him.  On  the  table  was  an 
empty  glass  and  a  bottle  of  whisky  that  had  been 
knocked  over.  Part  of  its  contents  had  flooded  an  open 
Bible.  A  pencil  lay  in  the  book,  and  a  broken  clay  pipe 
was  upon  the  floor. 

Tiger  entered  the  bedroom,  then  he  looked  round  the 
house.  A  dog  came  from  its  kennel,  but  there  was  no 
sign  of  Philip  Ouldsbroom.  It  seemed  that  some  impulse 
had  called  him  forth  suddenly. 

Tiger  walked  round  about  and  shouted  until  the  hills 
cried  back  faint  echoes ;  but  no  answer  came. 

Morning  broke  crystalline  over  the  hills  and  a  cock 
crew. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

For  two  days  great  hue-and-cry  was  made  after  Philip 
Ouldsbroom,  and  then  it  chanced  that  Martin  discovered 
him. 

Many  had  scoured  the  Moor,  persisting  in  their  quest 
from  early  dawn  to  twilight  of  evening ;  but  it  remained 
for  the  new  master  of  Hartland  to  find  the  old  master, 
and  then  it  was  by  an  accident  that  he  did  so. 

Riding  at  sunset  of  the  second  day,  Martin  came  aloft 
to  the  steep  valley  of  West  Dart.  At  hand  stood  Crow 
Tor,  and  he  dismounted  and  approached  it.  His  purpose 
was  to  climb  the  rocks,  if  possible,  and  survey  the  hills 
round  about  with  a  telescope,  which  he  had  borrowed 
for  this  search. 

Upon  the  crown  of  the  tor  an  evening  wind  played 
faint  music  and  touched  the  stones  to  melody,  even  as 
a  dawn  wind,  at  the  morning  of  days,  woke  Memnon's 
granite  lips  to  welcome  the  ascending  sun.  But  this  stone 
breathed  an  elegy  through  the  gloaming  and  made  a 
lamentation  for  the  dead.  Beneath  it,  stretched  along, 
lay  Ouldsbroom  on  his  face.  He  had  sought  his  haunt, 
climbed  to  his  familiar  eyrie  unde^.  the  rampire  of  the 
tor,  and  lain  dowTi  and  died  there.  His  hair  was  dabbled 
with  the  falling  dew, 

.     •     .     his  bowed  head  seemed  listening  to  the  Earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

Martin  carefully  drew  the  dead  man's  watch  out  of  his 
pocket.    It  was  an  heirloom  of  gold. 

At  dayspring  they  came  and  carried  the  body  away  to 
Hartland. 

451 


452  THE    THIEF    OF   VIRTUE 

A  shining  bed  in  the  whortleberry  and  green  grass 
persisted  for  some  hours  to  mark  the  place  of  passing; 
but  leaf  and  herbage  were  restored  anon.  They  lifted 
themselves  again  and  sprang  up  to  the  call  of  the  life 
within  them.  Then  that  silvery  depression  disappeared, 
as  the  sleeping  lairs  of  flocks  and  herds  vanish  when  they 
rise  up  at  dawn  and  go  upon  their  way. 

Unmarked,  a  scrap  of  dirty  paper  remained  upon  the 
little  plateau  after  Philip  was  borne  from  it.  Now  this 
fragment,  touched  by  the  wind,  moved  to  the  edge  of  the 
rocks  and  presently  lifted  into  air.  It  hovered,  fluttered, 
fell  into  the  peaty  pool  beneath  and  floated  there. 

The  dead  man  had  fingered  it  a  thousand  times  and 
never  parted  from  it.  Once  he  tore  it  in  half,  then 
changed  his  mind  and  mended  the  pages  again.  It  was 
Martin's  first  letter;  but  upon  it  now  might  have  been 
read  more  than  the  child  had  set  down.  A  faltering 
scrawl  ran  over  the  last  empty  page,  where  Philip  had 
copied  words  from  Job  before  he  entered  upon  his 
journey. 

^^He  shall  he  driven  from  light  into  darkness  and 
chased  out  of  the  world.  . ." 

Presently  the  paper  sank  beneath  the  surface  of  the 
pool  and  vanished. 


THE  END 


THE  HAVEN 

BY 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

Cloth.     12mo.     $1.50 

**The  foremost  English  novelist,  with  the  one  exception 
of  Thomas  Hardy.  .  .  .  His  descriptions  of  the  sea  and  his 
characterization  of  the  fisher  folks  are  picturesque,  true  to  life, 
full  of  humorous  philosophy." 

— Jeannette  L.  Gilder  in  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

"Mr.  Phillpotts  will  do  for  Devon  what  Mr.  Hardy  did 
for  Wessex.  One  has  a  sense  of  dealing  with  human  nature 
unglossed  and  articulate.  Mr.  Phillpotts'  people  are  never 
altogether  good  or  bad;  his  interpretation  is  wholesome  and 
hopeful."  — ^^^  Nation. 

"It  is  no  dry  bones  of  a  chronicle,  but  touched  by  genius 
to  life  and  vividness."  —Louisijille,  Ky.,  Post. 

A  vivid  and  complex  picture.  In  literary  craftsmanship 
and  in  characterization  it  is  the  equal  of '  Children  of  the  Mist,' 
'The  Three  Brothers,'  'The  Secret  Woman,'  and  any  other 
of  Mr.  Phillpotts'  novels,  which  is  the  same  as  saying  that  in 
these  vital  respects  it  ranks  with  the  best  fiction  of  our  day.  .  . 
This  author  grows  more  mellow  of  heart  with  the  ripening 
wisdom  of  years,  and  those  that  have  learned  to  appreciate  his 
realistic  art  will  find  'The  Haven'  a  fine  example  of  his  ma- 
tures! powers."  —Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"It  is  obvious  from  'The  Haven'  that  Mr.  Phillpotts' 
powers  of  invention,  his  ability  to  vivify  character  in  words, 
his  comprehension  of  the  thoughts  of  men,  and  best  of  all  his 
skill  at  the  telling  of  a  story,  are  at  the  highest.  Few  novelists 
can  bring  before  our  eyes  so  faithfully  the  scenes  and  the 
people,  and  few  can  write  of  practically  the  same  people  with 
an  infinite  variety  like  Mr.  Phillpotts."  —Boston  Transcript. 

A  close,  thoughtful  study  of  universal  human  nature." 

— Outlook. 

One  of  the  best  of  this  author' s  many  works. ' '  — Bookman. 


THE    COMPLETE   WORKS 

OF 

WILLIAM   J.   LOCKE 

"Life   is   a    glorious   thing." — W.   J.    Locke 

"If  you  wish  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  petty  cares  of  to-day,  read  one 
of  Locke's  novels.  You  may  select  any  from  the  following  titles 
and  be  certain  of  meeting  some  new  and  delightful  friends.  His 
characters  are  worth  knowing.  " — Baltimore  Sun. 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne  The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria  The  Beloved  Vagabond 

A  Study  In  Shadows  The  ^Vhite  Dove 

Simon  the  Jester  The  Usurper 

Where  Love  Is  Septimus 

Derelicts  Idols 

12mo.      Cloth.     $1.50  each 

Twelve  volumes  bound  in  green  cloth.       Uniform  edition  in  box. 
$18.00  per  set.     Half  Morocco  $50.00  net.     Express  prepaid. 

Simon  the  Jester 

(Profusely  illustrated  by  James  Montgomery  Flagg) 
*  *  It  has  all  the  charm  and  surprise  of  his  famous  *  Simple  Septimus. ' 
It  is  a  novel  full  of  wit  and  action  and  life.  The  characters  are  all 
out-of-the-ordinary  and  splendidly  depicted;  and  the  end  is  an 
artistic  triumph — a  fitting  climax  for  a  story  that's  full  of  charm 
and  surprise." — American  Magazine. 

The  Beloved  Vagabond 

"  'The  Beloved  Vagabond'  is  a  gently-written,  fascinating  tale. 
Make  his  acquaintance  some  dreary,  rain-soaked  evening  and  find 
the  vagabond  nerve-thrilling  in  your  own  heart. ' ' 

^Chicago  Record-Herald. 

Septimus  (illustrated  by  James  Montgomery  Flagg) 

"Septimus  is  the  joy  of  the  year. " — American  Magazine. 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

* '  One  of  those  rare  and  much-to-be-desired  stones  which  keep  one 
divided  between  an  interested  impatience  to  get  on  and  an  irresis- 
tible temptation  to  linger  for  full  enjoyment  by  the  way. ' ' — Life. 

Where  Love  Is 

"  One  of  those  unusual  novels  of  which  the  end  is  as  good  as  the 
beginning. ' ' — Ne<u>  York  Globe. 


WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 
The  Usurper 

"  Contains  the  hall-mark  of  genius  itself.  The  plot  is  masterly  in 
conception,  the  descriptions  are  all  vivid  flashes  from  a  brilliant 
pen.  It  is  impossible  to  read  and  not  marvel  at  the  skilled  work- 
manship and  the  constant  dramatic  intensity  of  the  incident,  situ- 
ations and  climax." —  The  Boston  Herald. 

Derelicts 

•'  Mr.  Locke  tells  his  story  in  a  very  true,  a  very  moving,  and  a 
very  noble  book.  If  any  one  can  read  the  last  chapter  with  dry 
eyes  w^e  shall  be  surprised.  •  Derelicts  '  is  an  impressive,  an  im- 
portant book.  Yvonne  is  a  creation  that  any  artist  might  be  prond 
of." — The  Daily  Chroniclt. 

Idols 

"  One  of  the  very  few  distinguished  novels  of  this  present  book 

season." — The  Daily  Mail. 

"  A  brilliantly  written  and  eminently  readable  book." 

— The  London  Daily  Telegraph. 

A  Study  in  Shadows 

"  Mr.  Locke  has  achieved  a  distinct  success  in  this  novel.  He  has 
struck  many  emotional  chords,  and  struck  them  all  with  a  firm, 
sure  hand.  In  the  relations  between  Katherine  and  Raine  he  had 
a  delicate  problem  to  handle,  and  he  has  handled  it  delicately." 

—  The  Daily  Chronicle. 

The  White  Dove 

"It  is  an  interesting  story.  The  characters  are  strongly  conceived 
and  vividly  presented,  and  the  dramatic  moments  are  powerfully 
realized." — The  Morning  Post. 

The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

"  Think  of  Locke's  clever  books.  Then  think  of  a  book  as  differ- 
ent from  any  of  these  as  one  can  well  imagine — that  will  be  Mr. 
Locke's  new  book." — New  York  World, 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria 

"  William  J.  Locke's  novels  are  nothing  if  not  unusual.  They  are 
marked  by  a  quaint  originality.  The  habitual  novel  reader  inevi- 
tably is  grateful  for  a  refreshing  sense  of  escaping  the  common- 
place path  of  conclusion." — Chicago  Record- Herald. 


An  American  Love-Story 

MARGARITA'S   SOUL 

BY 

JOSEPHINE  DASKAM  BACON 

[INGRAHAM  LOVELL] 

Profusely   Illustrated.      Sixteen   full-page   half-tone   illustrations. 

Numerous  line  cuts,  reproduced  from  drawings  by  J.  Scott 

Williams.     Also  Whistler  Butterfly  Decorations. 

Cloth.      12mo.      $1.50 

'Filled  with  imaginative  touches,  resourceful,  intelligent 
and  amusing.  An  ingenious  plot  that  keeps  the  interest  sus- 
pended until  the  end,  and  has  a  quick  and  shrewd  sense  of 
humor."  — Boston  Transcript. 

A  reviewer  would  hesitate  to  say  how  long  it  is  since  a 
writer  gave  us  so  beautiful,  so  naive,  so  strangely  brought  up 
and  introduced,  a  heroine.  It  is  to  be  hoped  thaf  the  author 
is  already  at  work  on  another  novel."  —Toronto  Globe. 

**May  cause  the  reader  to  miss  an  important  engagement 
or  neglect  his  business.  A  love  story  of  sweetness  and  purity 
touched  with  the  mythical  light  of  Romance  and  aglow  with 
poetry  and  tenderness.  One  of  the  most  enchanting  creatures 
in  modern  fiction."  — San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

It  is  extremely  entertaining  from  start  to  finish,  and 
there  are  most  delightful  chapters  of  description  and  romantic 
scenes  which  hold  one  positively  charmed  by  their  beauty  and 
unusualness. "  — Boston  Herald. 

Sentimental,  with  the  wholesome,  pleasing  sentimentality 
of  the  old  bachelor  who  has  not  turned  crusty.  .  .  A  Thack- 
erayan  touch."  — Ne^  York  Tribune. 

Captures  the  imagination  at  the  outset  by  the  boldness 
of  the  situation.  .  .  We  should  be  hard  put  to  it  to  name  a 
better  American  novel  of  the  month."  — The  Outlook. 


ANATOLE  FRANCE 


"Anatole  France  is  a  writer  whose  personality  is  very  strongly  re- 
flected in  his  works.  .  .  .  To  reproduce  his  evanescent  grace 
and  charm  is  not  to  be  lightly  achieved,  but  the  translators  have 
done  their  work  with  care,  distinction,  and  a  very  happy  sense  of 
the  value  of  words." — Daily  Graphic. 

"We  must  now  all  read  all  of  Anatole  France.  The  offer  is  too 
good  tr>  be  shirked.  He  is  just  Anatole  France,  the  greatest 
living  writer  of  French."  — Daily  Chronicle. 

Complete  Limited  Edition  in  English 

Under  the  general  editorship  of  Frederic  Chapman. 
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The  Comedian's  Tragedy 
The  Amethyst  Ring 
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Pierre  Noziere 
The  White  Stone 
Penguin  Island 
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Jerome  Coignard 
Jocasta  and 

the  Famished  Cat 
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Jean  Servien 
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the  Mall 
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Work  Woman 
At  the  Sign  of 

the  Queen  Pedauque 
Profitable  Tales 


THE  NEW  POCKET  LIBRARY 

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Coningsby  Henrietta  Temple  Vivian  Grey 

I  The  Young  Duke  (  Alroy 

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